3x00 Summer Heat
by jane0904
Summary: After the Season 2 finale, here is my take on the first episode of Season 3. AU for now and written for the DFT crowd. Rick is in the Hamptons, there's murder, and he needs help. NOW COMPLETE with a name addition and author's notes.
1. Chapter 1

"_You should be pleased," Rook said, giving a sad, twisted little smile. "You get your life back."_

_He walked away, and she waited for him to turn, to at least glance over his shoulder, but he didn't. She watched until he was out of sight, and wondered when he was ever going to be out of mind. Not that it mattered. Right now, this moment in time, Detective Nikki Heat was alone again._

Rick Castle read it through for the twentieth time, then lifted his head and gazed through the open French windows. The patio needed sweeping, he noted, sand having been blown in from the beach on the last brisk wind a week ago. Was it really that long? According to his laptop, it was eight days, in fact. But then, he'd been busy.

Looking back down to the cursor blinking rhythmically on the screen, he circled the mouse over the 'save' icon a few times, then clicked.

Done. Naked Heat was finished. He knew he should have felt ... what, satisfaction? Relief? Like a burden had been lifted from his shoulders? Any or all of the above, when instead all that now seeped through him was ... sadness.

Well, at least one person would be happy. Gina. Ex-wife and book editor. Emphasis, very much and very particularly, on the 'ex'. She'd come with him that day, setting out for the Hamptons with anticipation, even eagerness, but he'd soon realised she had ulterior motives. When she'd joked to Kate Beckett that she was going to stay on top of Rick until he'd finished the book, she wasn't. Joking, that is.

He'd thought they had got over the arguments, the wrongness between them, that maybe they could start afresh, take it slowly, perhaps even fall in love all over again. She'd evidently thought that he shouldn't be taking time out from writing to go scuba diving among the bright fishes, or playing volleyball with the kids from further along the beach, or sitting on the patio watching the sun set, Mojito in hand.

It reminded him why they broke up in the first place, and the argument that came next followed a weary, all too recognisable pattern, and Gina had stormed out. She'd come back, a couple of hours later, apologising profusely, but he'd finally seen past the veneer, the gloss of attraction, the pretence of affection.

No. That wasn't right. She probably did like him, on some level, but what was more important to Gina was the job, the next book, the next royalty cheque. The next alimony payment. And until that avaricious streak left her nature, she was always only ever going to be in a relationship for what she could get out of it.

(Like him. Like him with Kate Beckett, his little internal demon said, nudging him with its tiny pitchfork, and making him bleed.)

It had taken nine days before Gina packed her bags and went back to New York. He'd even driven her to the station himself, wondering if he should try and make her stay, give it a third chance. But she kissed him chastely on the cheek, told him to write, and got on the train.

The laptop had gone to sleep, and he closed the lid, placing it gently on the table. And he had written, hours at a time, ignoring everything but the most basic hygiene, eating only when he was afraid he was going to faint from hunger, sleeping usually in the chair and waking up with a stiff neck and wondering what the crap was he'd tapped into the computer the night before.

He'd just spent the last two hours rereading it.

Not the same, he had to admit. Not at all the same story he'd started out to write. It was darker, more emotional, more draining, at least on his part. Ninety percent of what he'd done before, when he was still talking to Kate, he'd altered. Some pages not much beyond a phrase here and there, a change of emphasis mostly, but others were entirely rewritten.

He didn't know if his fans would like it. Hell, he didn't know if _he_ liked it. But it would sell, and there was the promise, at the end, of a third novel. If he ever managed to get the inclination for it. Right now, all he wanted to do was send it to Black Pawn and get it over with.

The sun was setting, and golden light was shining into the house. He got up, stretching his cramped back muscles, and walked to the windows. The smell of the ocean was strong, the breeze picking it up and caressing his nostrils with it, while the faint murmur of the waves was in counterpoint to the cry of the seagulls.

The very loud cry of the seagulls.

They'd found something, further along the beach. A dead fish, perhaps, or a sea lion. Washed ashore and now fair game. Glancing back at the laptop, he suddenly couldn't face composing the email to Gina, and instead stepped out into the evening air.

He closed his eyes for a moment, simply relishing the feel of the sun on his skin, the tension starting to leave his body, and he actually smiled. He hadn't done that in a while. Lifting a hand he scratched at the beard he'd been too busy to shave, that now adorned his chin with more than stubble, then turned his head as he heard laughter. Further up the beach he could see a family of two adults and three children playing with a dog, some big scruffy type. The father was throwing a ball, and the hound was chasing it, barking madly, joyously.

Maybe he should go and say hello. He hadn't spoken to anyone for three days, not since the boy came from the market to deliver the food he'd ordered, and it would be nice to see if his voice still worked. And he could take a look at whatever had been washed up at the same time. Although … he looked down at himself, and wondered if, considering what he was wearing, perhaps he should go change first. The long shorts that skimmed his knees had seen better days, despite their comfort, and the bright, garish Hawaiian shirt only ever saw the light of day when he was on vacation.

No. This was the beach, and most people didn't look their best. Except Gina, the treacherous thought insinuated itself as he stepped down onto the sand and began strolling towards the laughing group. She'd never looked untidy in her life. She was probably born with her hair perfectly coiffed, her nails painted.

Alexis hadn't known he'd invited his ex-wife to the Hamptons. He'd driven her to Princeton and not said a word about who his houseguest was going to be, leaving her with the distinct impression it was going to be Kate. (But that was never going to happen. Idiot, for believing it was ever going to be any different, his inner demon chastised him.)

Martha, on the other hand, was scathing. Using all her actress-skills and command of the verbal putdown, she told him exactly what she thought of the idea, hardly repeating herself at all, attempting to stop him as he did the last of his packing. Then _she'd_ called Alexis.

His daughter, her anxiety coming clearly over the phone, had been afraid he was going to do something stupid, and was ready to drop everything and take the next train, but he'd assured her marriage wasn't on the menu, and not to leave Princeton to sort him out, that he was fine. A little over a week later Gina had gone anyway, Alexis was happy, and he'd had to make her promise not to tell Kate. The detective needed her space, and if that space involved Demming, then so be it.

Neither Alexis nor Martha, in their regular phone calls, had mentioned talking to Kate.

The sand felt hot but good under his bare feet, and he was careful to avoid the sharp shells scattered here and there. Maybe he should build a castle. He hadn't done anything like that for a long time, digging a moat and filling it with water, searching for flotsam to decorate it, with a flag for the highest tower.

No. Too easy to knock down, to trample until there was no sign it had ever existed.

He was closer now to whatever lay at the edge of the water, and whatever it was appeared to be wrapped in fabric, jewel colours that moved lazily in the tiny waves still lapping at it. Just another half dozen steps and he would be able to see …

A woman. It was a woman, her eyes gazing at him.

Running forward he fell onto his knees in the sand, ignoring the grains scratching his skin, reaching out to see if she had a pulse. Nothing. No movement at all under his questing fingertip. And she was cold, too, her skin clammy.

He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry as he stared at the body, his writer's mind taking in the details, the minutiae of death. Young, maybe mid twenties. Long dark hair, draped over much of her lower face. Green eyes that he wanted to close, to shut out their gaze, but he knew he couldn't touch. Seaweed wrapped around her left wrist. A gold watch on her right. Broken fingernails on both hands. A halter neck dress, probably full length, caught up high on long, shapely legs. One strappy sandal, the heel broken.

"Hey, what're you lookin' at?"

A voice behind him, a child. He jumped to his feet, trying to hide the corpse. "No, you mustn't …" But it was too late.

The boy, no more than eight or nine, shouted, "Dad!"

The man ran up. "Dear Lord." He grabbed his son and pushed him away, at the same time dragging a cellphone from his pocket. "Dear Lord," he said again.

* * *

**A.N.: **As it says in the blurb, this is my take on Episode 00 of Season 3, and doesn't interact with my current story Blow The Man Down. I hope to get this one finished before the new season opener, so expect updates fairly regularly (with more from BTMD too). And the DFTs? Deep-Fried Twinkies, of course!

Jane


	2. Chapter 2

It had been a bad summer. Oh, not the weather – as always the sun shone down onto a sweltering New York, where anybody who had even a modicum of sense had made a beeline for cooler shores, leaving only those who were too poor to afford a train ticket, or those who were insane enough to want to stay sweating it out.

Kate, had she actually allowed herself to think about it, would probably have put herself in the latter category – no inclination to leave (although she hadn't lost her mind – yet). As it was she simply put away her coats and got back to work. She didn't think about Castle. Not at all. Not once.

Right.

Every time she looked at the espresso machine, she didn't think of him. Every time she interviewed a suspect she didn't hear his voice in her head asking some pertinent question. Every time she wrote on the murder board she didn't ... oh, who the hell was she kidding?

Worst of all she couldn't stop thinking about him leaving, his arm around his ex-wife. She'd tried to tell him how she felt, what she wanted, that she was willing to try ... and he'd smiled as he walked out, and she hadn't asked him to stop.

It was like a blow to her solar plexus, knocking the wind out of her.

Although, if anything, the looks on her friends' faces were worse.

So she'd walked back into that room, picked up a beer, taken a deep draught, and made like everything was fine. They'd taken the hint, didn't ask if she was okay, and she hadn't cried. Even when Lanie took her out and loudly pointed out a number of very presentable young men in the bar, each of them giving her the eye, she didn't show anything.

And the next day there was a murder, and when they locked up the man responsible, she told herself that at least she hadn't needed a hack writer to break the case for her.

"Good job," Montgomery said, packing his briefcase with the papers he needed to update the Mayor in the morning. He looked up as he snapped it closed. "Why don't you take a few days off?"

She shook her head. "No, thank you, sir. I don't have enough vacation days left." Too long spent looking for an apartment after hers had been blown up. After Castle had walked … no, _run_ into an unknown, possibly highly dangerous situation to save her life. He hadn't even paused to consider the risks. She could still hear him calling her name …

Montgomery was still talking. "I'm sure we can come to some kind of arrangement. You work more hours than most people around here." He picked up his jacket, but for once didn't slip it on, instead carefully draping it over his am. "Take a week. I'm pretty sure Ryan and Esposito can cope without you for that long."

"I've got paperwork. And murderers don't take holidays."

"And cops who don't tend to burn out. I've seen it happen all too often. Don't make me order you."

"I'm fine," she insisted.

Montgomery sighed. "Well, I tried."

"I know." She allowed a slight smile. "But thanks, sir."

"If you change your mind, let me know." He walked past her into the squad room. "At least go home now."

"Soon. I promise."

He shook his head ruefully, then strode for the elevator, ready for some quality time with his wife and kids.

With a sigh Kate crossed back to her desk, staring down at the tan files, the handful of pink message slips (none from Castle – she'd already looked), at the email icon blinking on her computer (that wouldn't be from Castle either – not that she wanted it to be, of course), and for about a millisecond she considered taking a long weekend, finding a beach somewhere, blue seas, maybe some companionship of the male persuasion ...

She closed her eyes briefly then sat down, sliding her chair under the desk with a squeal. Picking up the file marked _Kingsley, Francis_ from the top of the heap she began to work.

* * *

This was, Rick decided, a lot less fun than being interviewed by Kate. For a start Detective Buckman wasn't anywhere near as pretty, his shirt sweat-stained under the armpits, his buzz haircut giving his bullet head a strong likeness to a GI Joe, and he smelled of cheap cigars. He also seemed to believe that if a cop was belligerent and loud enough the suspect would confess.

The suspect, in this particular case, being Richard Castle, well-known author.

The police had arrived quickly – first a black and white, then a newish grey Chevy, its wheels drifting on the sand, followed closely by a CSU truck. Rick would have found it amusing if he'd been of a mind to laugh as the occupants disgorged – the two detectives were in suits, the Crime Scene people in identical smart polo-shirts and chinos – but it was probably simply because it was the Hamptons, without doubt one of the most expensive zip codes in the country, and it was expected.

They quickly taped off the area, interviewing the family discreetly before sending them back to their hotel. Rick, on the other hand, was invited to sit in the Chevy. With no wallet on him to prove who he was, that was quickly extended to visit the station.

"Can I at least go and lock up my house?" he pleaded, but it fell on deaf ears as they drove away from the beach. At least they didn't handcuff him, but it was made clear it was an option if he tried anything stupid.

The East Hampton Police Department was housed in a new building, all glass and steel, with nothing like the homely feel of the 12th. It smelled wrong, too, like a dozen brands of expensive aftershave instead of honest sweat and hard toil. As they showed him to an interview room to wait, he honestly began to miss the slightly peeling paint and occasionally rusty pipes of the New York squad room.

Nearly an hour later, when Rick had half managed to convince himself they'd forgotten him and he could just walk out, Detective Lyle Buckman walked into the room, using his bulk for maximum intimidation.

"Richard Castle," he said.

"That's what my driving license says."

Okay, so the quip and the smile didn't even register as Buckman's face remained impassive. "I'm surprised you haven't called a lawyer."

Rick's eyebrows raised a fraction. "Do I need one?"

"I don't know. Do you?"

"Not lately, no. Look, I just found the body. I had nothing to do with her death."

"It's not the first time a murderer's made it look like they found the body. It's classic."

Rick shrugged. "I know. I used it in A Skull At Springtime."

Buckman opened the file and slide a photo forward. "Know her?"

Rick looked down. It was a photo of the woman, her hair moved from her face, her eyes closed, but it was definitely her. Now it was just a picture, he was able to take in her delicate cheekbones, the scatter of freckles across her nose, the bow to her lips. She looked like she might have smiled a lot once. But recognition? "No. I've never seen her before."

"Not at one of your book signings? Or a party. Perhaps you invited her for a little visit. You were drinking, things got out of hand ..."

"I said I don't know her," Rick insisted. "I only found her on the beach."

"That's what you say." Buckman crossed his arms, his rolled up sleeves stretched taut across his biceps.

Rick tapped the file on the table between them. "No, that's what the witness says."

"And another witness said you had a woman with you when you arrived."

"My ex-wife."

"You often go on holiday with your ex?"

"No, this would be a first." _And last_, he silently added.

"And you're sure this isn't her?" Buckman moved the photo forward half an inch.

"Gina is a blonde. Besides, she went back to the city three weeks ago. I'll give you her number. You can call her."

Buckman smiled, only there was little humour in it. "Oh, don't worry about that. We will."

"And while you're about it, call Captain Roy Montgomery of the 12th Precinct. I've been working as a consultant with the NYPD. He'll vouch for me. Or the Mayor."

"Name-dropping now." Buckman shook his head. "What next, the Vice-President?"

"Well, we have met, but we're not exactly on first name terms."

Buckman glared at him. "You know, I don't like you."

"I gathered that."

Suddenly Buckman was standing, leaning on the table, his hands in fists, his face barely six inches from Rick's. "I was born here, in East Hampton. Lived here all my life. Married my childhood sweetheart in the church we both went to. Just ordinary people. And then here come visitors like you, arriving with your fat wallets and your expensive way of life, and suddenly nobody local can afford to buy a house anymore."

This was so not good, Rick realised. Buckman had a chip the size of Manhattan on his shoulder, and a murder he needed to solve quickly. Or at least hang on someone convenient. Maybe he should call that lawyer after all. But for the moment all he said was, "I'm sorry."

"Yeah."

Maybe charm would work. "Look, Detective Buckman, like I said, I've helped out the police in New York on a number of cases, very successfully. If we put our heads together, we might be able to figure this out."

"Figure this out." Buckman sat back, his eyes narrowing. "You think we're hicks, don't you? Out here in the wilds of nowhere. And you're from the big city, used to getting exactly what you want, when you want it."

"It doesn't quite happen like that," Rick said, pushing the image of Kate standing there as he'd walked away with Gina from his mind.

Buckman ignored him. "And if the person you want doesn't want you, well, you just take her. Isn't that right?"

"No."

"And she was someone you wanted, only she fought back."

"No."

Buckman gazed at him, then glanced down at the file. "What were you doing yesterday?"

"What?"

"Yesterday. Our ME puts preliminary time of death around twenty-four hours ago."

Twenty-four hours. But the clothes were evening wear ... (Just answer the man's question, his inner demon reminded him.) "The same as I was doing the day before yesterday. The same I was doing today. Writing."

"Can anyone corroborate that?"

"No," Rick was forced to admit. "I haven't spoken to anyone in that time." Not even Alexis. He'd told her to have a good time, to ring ... dammit, to ring tonight. "Look, can I make a call?"

"What, decided you want your lawyer after all?"

"I just need –"

Buckman didn't let him finish. Instead he took the photo back and placed it carefully on top of the papers in the file, and said, "Let's start again, shall we?"

Rick suppressed a groan.

* * *

"Why don't you just call him?" Lanie asked from deep in her second Passion Pounder, or whatever the violently orange-coloured cocktail was called.

"Who?" Kate sipped her own glass, tasting the fruit before the hit of alcohol burned it away.

"Castle, of course."

"Why would I do that?"

"Girl, sometimes I think the heat's scrambled your brain."

Kate waved her hand in dismissal. "I'll be seeing him in a few weeks."

"You're sure about that, are you?"

"That's what he said."

"He also asked you to go with him."

The stabbing in her heart was drowned as she finished her drink. "And I said no."

"And for the life of me I don't know why you did that."

"Because I was seeing Tom." She signalled the barman for two more.

"Who you then proceeded to dump."

"I know what I did, Lanie," Kate said, perhaps more sharply than she had intended.

"For the life of me I still don't know why." Kate mumbled something that in the noise of the bar Lanie couldn't pick up. "What was that, sweetie?"

"I said, because I don't cheat."

Lanie looked at her friend. "You really do have it bad."

The barman placed two more of the electric hued drinks on front of them, and Kate picked up one. "Lanie, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"No. Maybe you don't. Or maybe you just won't let yourself." The ME shook her head. "What you need is a good man."

"I had a good man." Kate stared into the depths of the drink and seeing the future amongst the paper umbrellas and slices of lemon and lime. This was going to be her last, she knew. Many more and she wouldn't be able to stop herself telling Lanie exactly what had happened, and worse, how she really felt. And that would never do.

"Then go to the Hamptons and tell him."

"I'm talking about Tom."

Lanie sighed mightily. "You know, if you weren't a girlfriend, I'd want to slap some sense into you."

"And I'd arrest you for assault."

"Kate –" she began in exasperation.

"Lanie, stop. I'm fine. Honestly. Whatever you think you know, you don't. I'm fine. Really."

"Well, if you say so, honey." Except Lanie didn't look convinced.

"I do." Kate dredged up a smile and took a pull at her cocktail. Besides, if she kept telling herself that often enough, it might just turn out to be true.


	3. Chapter 3

By the time Buckman finally admitted he wasn't going to charge Rick with anything – yet – it was gone midnight, and it was sheer luck he managed to find a cab that would drive him back to his beach house.

The driver had said as much. "Last fare of the night," he'd commented, his darker skin and ready smile reminding Rick of Esposito. "It's been a long day."

"That it has." Rick managed to smile.

"So what were you in there for?"

"A misunderstanding."

The cab driver laughed. "Yeah. I know those kind." He'd let Rick doze from then, only waking him when they reached their destination. "Home, sweet home."

Rousing from a half-dream where a woman was calling to him from the swell of the ocean, only it wasn't the brunette he'd found but another entirely, Rick sat up, rubbing his face with his hands. "Thanks."

"You okay?"

"I'm fine. I ... the day, you know?"

"Sure."

Rick climbed from the car, about to search his pockets for some notes, when he stopped. "Shit."

"You got a problem?" the cab driver asked.

Rick was staring at his front door, standing wide open onto the darkness inside. "Just a little."

The driver leaned out of his window. "Uh oh. I'm taking it nobody's home?"

"You're taking it right."

"You want me to call the cops for you?"

Rick sighed. "No. It's okay. I'll do it."

"Only there's been a rash of these lately."

"The Hamptons has a higher rate of burglary than New York," Rick said absently.

"Only if you've got something worth stealing," the driver said, grinning. "Some of us have to work for a living."

"Oh, right." Rick fished in his pocket, wondering if he was going to have to plead poverty himself but finding a ten and a twenty scrunched into a corner. "How much?"

"Twenty-four sixty."

"Here." He handed the notes over. "Keep the change."

"Thanks, man." The driver made the bills disappear inside his jacket. "You sure about you not wanting me to call the cops for you? It's no bother."

"No, honestly. I need to see what's missing first."

"Okay, man. Your funeral." He gunned the engine, then let it idle again. "I'll wait 'til you get inside, though. Make sure you don't come running out, some guy after you with a hatchet."

Rick had to smile. "All this for five bucks tip?"

"Nah." The driver grinned. "My sis loves your books. You're Richard Castle, aren't you?"

He scratched the beard. "You recognised me?"

"Hey, I've been driving a cab for nearly fifteen years. You get used to faces and putting names to 'em. Besides, Noni's been driving me crazy asking when the new one comes out – she can't wait for it."

The new one. Damn. Rick's face fell. "_Naked Heat_. Yeah."

"You okay?"

Rick shook himself. "I'm fine."

"'Kay. I'll take your word for it. But I'll wait, all the same."

"Thanks." Rick took a couple of steps towards the darkened house, then turned back. "Look, if you want to drop back tomorrow, I'll sign a couple of books for your sister."

The driver grinned, his teeth standing out like miniature white gravestones in the darkness. "Really?"

"Really."

"She's gonna love that. And I'll tell you what, you let me know what's missing, I'll ask around. I know a lot of places in this town the cops don't, and a lot of faces they ain't never gonna go looking for."

After his experience with Buckman, Rick was almost shocked by this stranger's generosity. "Thanks."

"No probs. And if you need a ride, you just call dispatch and ask for Jerry Reyes."

"Jerry. Okay. And thanks again."

"Like I said, no probs."

Rick held out a hand and they shook, then he turned down the path and strode into the house. Quickly putting the lights on, he took a deep breath and screwed up his courage to search each room.

His wallet was gone from the bedside table, but that had only contained a couple of hundred bucks, and it was only the work of a moment to check that the safe in the wardrobe was untouched. As always he'd locked up his credit cards as soon as he'd arrived, along with his ... no, wait. He'd left the Rolex on the table with the wallet, and it too was missing. It was insured, but that wasn't the point. He'd bought it with his first royalties, and it had extreme sentimental value, reminding him of a time when writing was something he wanted to do, rather than feeling under pressure because of deadlines.

He sighed heavily and walked into the living area. His heart dropped even further. It barely registered that the plasma TV had been ripped from its bracket on the wall, or even that the newer stereo equipment was likewise missing. No, it was when his eyes fell on the empty table that his world began to disintegrate. His laptop was gone. Nikki Heat had been stolen.

"No," he whispered, his grasp of cursing momentarily deserting him.

After a moment he shook himself. "Come on. Get on," he told himself. Closing the French windows and locking them securely, he went back to the front door and waved at Jerry sitting in the car, who lifted a hand in salute before putting the cab in gear and driving off back towards town.

Rick closed the door, leaning on it. The physical items could all be replaced but ... all that hard work. Well, most of it. He'd kept a back-up on a flash drive in the safe, but the last day's writing, the end of the book ... that was gone. He went back and checked again, but the laptop was definitely absent.

The landline phone rang, making him jump. Waiting a second for his pulse to slow something more normal he picked it up. "Yes?"

"Dad. At last."

"Alexis." He exhaled loudly, more pleased than he cared to admit to hear his daughter's voice.

"Are you okay? I've been trying your cell for ages."

His cell. Which he'd left on the table next to the laptop. Damn, something else he was going to have to add to the list.

He made an effort and smiled, knowing it would register even if she couldn't see. "Of course I am, pumpkin. How's everything going at Princeton?" He glanced at the clock, miraculously still on the mantel. "And do you have any idea what time it is?"

"We just got back from a party. And I said I'd call."

"We?" He took refuge in humour. "Who is he and how do I stop this?"

"There's no _he, _Dad. Melanie and me."

Melanie. Right. The girl she'd made friends with. "What about Carter?" Blond, tanned, all together too old for her, by at least six months.

"No idea."

This time the smile was more genuine, although he felt sad that maybe she was hurting. "Are you okay?"

"Of course, Dad." She laughed. "There wasn't really anything between us." She lowered her voice. "Besides, he snored."

He felt his heart miss a beat. "Alexis!"

"You could hear it from across the hall. I have no idea how his roommate put up with it." She paused. "Why, what did you think I meant?"

"Nothing. Nothing." She was only sixteen, he heard his inner demon telling him. There was going to be a good few years of this yet. Worse, she was getting so very good at winding him up. "Did you have a good time? At the party?"

"Dad, stop trying to change the subject. Something's happened, hasn't it?"

"What's given you that idea?"

"Come on, Dad. I know you."

"I thought it was only your grandmother who was psychic. She has to be, considering the number of times she's interrupted me in flagrante."

"Dad."

He let himself fall into the leather lazyboy, lifting the arm and being inordinately glad the burglars hadn't found the imported beer in the cooler beneath. Taking out a bottle, he perched the phone on his shoulder as he twisted the cap off, tossing it at the bare wall. It caught on the exposed wires, hanging like a tiny trophy. "Okay," he said finally, taking a mouthful and feeling the cold glass comfortingly on his lips. "But you're not to tell Kate."

"I promise. Just ... tell me."

He sighed. "Well, earlier today I'd finished _Naked Heat_ – yes, I know, at last – and I decided to go for a walk ..."

Eventually he managed to persuade Alexis not to leave Princeton – although he wondered if she really wanted to be there, considering she was taking every opportunity to offer to come to his aid – and spent the next hour making a more thorough search and listing everything that was missing from the house.

It wasn't until morning, though, after a restless night in the armchair plagued by dreams of faceless women in jewel bright dresses, each trying to tell him something important through non-existent mouths, that Rick thought to look for the hire car keys. They were conspicuous by their absence, confirmed by an equal lack of car in the drive at the side of the house. He managed to crack a small smile as he stared at the empty space. With any luck the thieves wouldn't have been able to get very far in it – he'd been meaning to buy gas that very morning.

Some things he couldn't see a housebreaker taking, like one of his favourite t-shirts, the blue one with the _Jefferson Phys Ed_ logo on the front, but there was no accounting for taste. Although, come to think of it, Gina's bag had seemed heavier on the way out than on the way in.

Maybe she was planning to sell it on E-bay.

Still, it meant he didn't have a choice. He was going to have to go back to the East Hampton police to report the burglary, even if they had allowed it to happen in the first place. And he really didn't want to face Buckman again, but that looked like a no-winner.

"He's going to think I've come in to confess," Rick said to himself, heading back into the house for a very strong coffee to fortify him for the travails to come.

* * *

Kate had a headache. Not a hangover, she kept telling herself, just a headache. And the slight rolling of her stomach as the scent of the freshly brewed coffee that had followed Ryan back into the bullpen from the break room caught at her nostrils was simply from something she'd eaten the day before.

Or more likely something she'd _drunk _the night before, if she was more honest, grimacing slightly. Damn, but Lanie could put them away. She must have alcohol running through her veins instead of blood. Vivid, orange alcohol. Or maybe formaldehyde. Kate smiled slightly. With any luck her best friend was in a worse state than she was.

Montgomery walked into the squad room, a fine sheen of sweat on his skin. "If anything I think it's getting hotter," he complained.

"It's supposed to storm tomorrow," Ryan, ever the weatherman, said.

"They said that yesterday," Esposito put in. "And if you mention one word about the humidity I will take out my gun and shoot you."

Ryan grinned.

A young woman in uniform, her long blonde hair caught back from her face in a tight plait down the centre of her back, approached them, holding out a piece of pink paper. "Captain Montgomery? A message for you."

He smiled. "Thanks." He watched her retreat, then turned to Kate. "Who is she?"

"Rachel Jordan," she supplied. "Assigned a week ago."

"Damn."

"Sir?"

"I must be getting old. Isn't that what they say? When all the new recruits look like they're still kids?"

"It must be catching, because ..." Kate stopped. "Sir?"

Montgomery was staring at the message slip in his hand. "The East Hampton PD want a word," he said slowly.

Kate sighed. "What's he done now?" She couldn't even bring herself to say his name.

He looked up at her. "There's nothing to say Castle's done anything."

"A little bit too coincidental, though, don't you think?" She shook her head, then wished she hadn't as the headache tugged at her temples. "He's been arrested."

"You think?" Ryan leaned back in his chair. "Wouldn't he have called you if he had?"

"No," she responded, more brusquely than she intended. She blamed it on the hang ... on the headache.

"Well, we won't know until I make the call." Montgomery headed into to his office.

"Streaking," Ryan said firmly.

Esposito looked at his partner. "Yeah?"

"Across the local golf course. On rollerblades. Naked."

"My therapist thanks you for that wonderful mental image."

"My pleasure."

"Except I think you're wrong." Esposito was starting to get into the swing of things. "Golf, yes. Streaking ... no. I say he stole a golf buggy, ran it through the Mayor's favourite rose bed. Twice." He looked at Kate. "What do you think?"

"I think maybe you don't have enough to do." Her lips curved, though.

"Us?" Ryan managed to look scandalised. "Not have enough to do? When we barely have time to sit down?"

"Shame on you," Esposito added.

"Yeah." Ryan looked at his partner. "Coffee?" he asked.

"Fresh?"

"I'll make some just for you."

"Don't mind if I do."

Kate had to smile at their antics, as always lightening the atmosphere. Then Montgomery left his office, and her smile froze at his serious expression. "Sir?"

"There's been a suspicious death."

Kate felt the world begin to slip away. "Castle?" she blurted out before she could stop herself.

"No. A woman. But they think he's involved somehow."

"Was it Gina?" Ryan had watched with the others as Castle walked out of the precinct with his ex-wife on his arm that day, leaving Kate looking stunned. No matter how much she pretended not to care, he knew it had hurt her deeply.

"No," Montgomery said. "Apparently they're already confirmed she came back to New York some time ago."

Esposito turned back to his computer. "There should be something on the local news websites by now," he muttered, typing quickly. In just a few seconds he had reached the page of The Hampton Register, the headline stating 'Unknown Woman Found Dead On Beach'.

"At least it's kept the rash of burglaries off the front page," Ryan commented, then added as they all looked at him, "So I've been keeping track."

His partner was scanning the article. "It doesn't mention Castle by name, but apparently the body was found by a visiting summer celebrity." He scrolled down. "They don't know the identity of the woman yet, but they're appealing for witnesses."

"Photo?" Montgomery asked.

"Yeah." He enlarged the image so it filled the screen.

It wasn't a photo as such, more an artist's rendering, although none of them were in any doubt that it was done from one of the crime scene images. It showed a young woman with brown hair falling around her shoulders, her green eyes staring out at the viewer.

"How was she killed?" Ryan wanted to know.

Esposito went back to the article. "It says initial findings suggest she drowned, but the police are keeping an open mind."

"Anything else?" Montgomery again.

"No. It's basically a filler piece until they get something more concrete."

"What did the East Hampton police say?" Kate didn't want to sound like she was concerned, but she wasn't sure she'd managed it.

Montgomery shrugged. "Just that Castle is a person of interest, and they wanted me to vouch for his assistance over the last year."

"So they're warming up the electric chair as we speak," Ryan joked.

"I was ... complimentary."

"Well, I'm sure he can handle it." Kate started to turn away.

"Don't you want to call him?" Esposito asked, surprise written across his face.

"No. He hasn't called me. Us," she corrected quickly. "Why should we get involved?"

The three men exchanged a look.

"Because he's Castle?" Ryan suggested.

Kate glared at them. "Don't you really have enough work to do?"

Montgomery coughed. "I think we might make allowances on this. For a while."

Kate knew they liked Castle. The writer was like that, able to work under people's skins like a splinter, niggling away until it was as if he'd always been there. Only he wasn't. He'd gone and ... out of sight, out of mind. Except it wasn't like that.

And what the hell was going on with Gina? So she'd been back in the city for a while, had she? Why wasn't she still with –

"Beckett?" It was Esposito.

She pulled herself together. "Fine. Okay." She let the police officer in her take over. "Run the picture through missing persons, see if we get any hits."

"It's a pity we don't have her DNA," Ryan said.

"Hey, doesn't Lanie know the ME in East Hampton?" Esposito asked. "Maybe she could get some more information."

Kate bit her lip. "I don't know ..."

"He's our friend. And he's in trouble."

"He might deserve it."

Esposito smiled slightly. "Probably. But that doesn't mean he doesn't need our help."

"Yes, I get it." Kate headed back to her desk. "You know, he is going to owe me big time," she said, lifting the phone and dialling Lanie's number. "Big time," she repeated, hoping she was going to be able to collect.


	4. Chapter 4

Buckman was busy, but rather than let Rick off the hook the detective he spoke to insisted he wait. With a huge sigh Rick dropped into the chair at the side of the desk, a flash of déjà vu distracting him for a moment.

Not that this squad room was anything like the one he knew, although it smelled like they had the same battery acid/monkey pee coffee that used to be on offer back in the city, before he invested in an espresso machine. He was almost tempted to ask for a cup, just for old time's sake, but was afraid his taste buds would never recover. As far as he was concerned it was one of the most essential things he'd ever bought. Almost up there with his cellphone. Which was now missing.

He shook his head, going back to more normal things. At least the coffee machine had kept his colleagues sane. Except perhaps they weren't his colleagues any more. He wasn't a cop, didn't carry a badge, no matter how often he'd asked for one. And the way he'd left, the looks he knew had to be being tossed his way, his flippant 'See you in the autumn' seemed more like goodbye.

He slumped further into the chair and absently scratched his beard, one part of his mind – the inner writer who alternately tried to keep his conscience clear and tempted him into bad ways – pointing out that Kate probably wouldn't like it. If she ever saw it.

He wanted to go back. Didn't he? After all, he had so many more Nikki Heat novels in him. Or maybe he should be looking for a new character. Derrick Storm may have featured in more than a dozen books, but that was no reason Nikki would. Particularly with the way he'd written the end.

"Shit," he murmured, the reason for him sitting in a strange police station kicking him in the hindbrain. _That _chapter was missing, along with the laptop it was written on. Oh, he could rewrite it, had already done so in long hand over breakfast, as least the bits he could remember. But he knew there were nuances missing, whole sentences that had spoken of Rook's feelings, Nikki's desires, and how both of them had got firmly and squarely in the way of each other. He couldn't even remember how he'd left the last line.

Jerry Reyes had promised to ask around, repeating it as he'd let Rick out of his cab earlier. "There's a few guys I went to school with who ... shall we say ... don't see eye to eye with the law."

"I'm not surprised if Buckman is an example."

Reyes tucked the fare into his pocket then gave Rick an odd look. "You know, you might consider cutting the guy a break."

"Who, Buckman?"

"He's a good guy."

"I'll take your word for that."

"No, really. I was at school with him, too."

"People change."

"Maybe. But Lyle's had a few problems in his life. His little girl's pretty sick, and it kinda gets on top of him sometimes." He glanced out at the police building. "I guess things happen, and he always was a little too willing to maybe take things at face value, but like I said, perhaps you'd like to cut him a little slack."

Rick couldn't help but smile somewhat ruefully. He'd fallen into the trap. Just because Buckman looked like a stereotype, the bull-headed, thick-necked cop who made the case fit the suspect rather than doing any real detective work, he'd believed that first impression.

Admittedly that first impression had been pretty damn convincing, particularly from his side of the table, but Rick knew he should have realised there was more. After all, he was a writer, and as such he was always very careful to give his characters depth, often a back story of half a dozen pages that never made it into the finished book but coloured how he wrote them. Even throwaway characters, barely on the page for more than a sentence or two, had a paragraph each in his 'bible'. So to make the mistake of thinking someone was just who he appeared ...

As he climbed from the cab, Rick squinted up at the sun reflected off the large glass panels and nodded. "Yeah. Maybe I should."

"You want me to wait?"

"No. I don't know how long I'll be, then I've got a few things to do in town."

"Well, I'll hang around until I get another fare." Jerry tapped his radio. "Just in case you need a getaway driver."

Rick had smiled and headed inside.

Now he watched as Detective Buckman strode into the ... _his_ bullpen, and dragged off his jacket.

"You okay?" one of his workmates asked.

"Damn that Mayor," Buckman grumbled. "Wants to know why we haven't caught the guy who did this, and why didn't we keep it out of the papers." He shook his head. "All he thinks about are the tourists." His eyes fell on an unfortunately familiar face sitting by his desk. "Oh, great."

His colleague smiled. "He's been waiting for you."

"Thanks." Buckman strode over, anger in every step. "Castle."

"Detective."

"Come to confess?"

"No."

"Pity. I was hoping for a quick result." He pulled his chair out and dropped into it.

"The powers that be getting to you?"

Buckman looked surprised, as if he was expecting something more scathing. "Uh ... yeah. A bit."

"I know how you feel."

The detective's eyes narrowed, but he said, "What are you doing here?"

"Someone burglarised my house. Although I'm not sure burglary is the right term, since it was wide open."

"That was a stupid thing to do."

"Somebody wouldn't let me lock up when they invited me to take a little ride," Rick pointed out.

Buckman didn't blush, but perhaps the tips of his ears darkened a little. "Oh. Yeah. Well, maybe you should invest in a better burglar alarm. Or a dog. Something big."

"I'll consider it." Rick tried a smile. "Anyway, I thought I'd better come in and report it."

"Why, are you planning to sue?"

"No. But my insurance company is going to insist."

"Do you want us to come out? Fingerprint the place?"

"Take a look around, you mean? See if there's something you can use to pin this death on me."

"It crossed my mind."

Rick's smile became more genuine. "At least you're honest." He sobered. "Any idea who she is yet?"

Buckman surprised him by answering honestly. "No. I've got officers canvassing the local hotels, but she could be a visitor. It could take a while." He seemed to realise he was losing his tough cop persona, because he coughed and snatched a green form from a stack beside him. "Here. Fill this in. We'll circulate a description of the missing items, but yours isn't the only home that's been broken into, and so far we haven't exactly been that successful at locating any of the stolen goods."

Rick nodded. "And most of it's only tourists, right?"

The other man slapped a pen down. "Just fill it in, okay?"

* * *

"Yo, Beckett."

Kate, on her way back to her desk with a fragrant coffee, detoured to Esposito. "What do you have?"

"A hit."

"On missing persons?"

"Sort of."

"Sort of?" Her eyebrows lifted.

"Except it can't be right."

"Show me."

* * *

"There." Rick passed the form back over. "Done."

"Is that all?"

"More or less."

"Which?" Buckman pointed at Rick with his pen. "Remembering if the answer's more, I still have a nice cell waiting for you."

"With a southern exposure?" Rick smiled. "No, it's accurate. As far as I can tell. There might be something small I haven't missed yet, but if that's the case I doubt I'll be able to tell."

"Okay." Buckman initialled it. "I'll give you an annotated copy for you to send to your insurance company, and we'll add these items to the list of stolen property, but I have to warn you that we –"

"Don't hold out much hope," Rick finished. "Yes, I know. Most of it's probably long gone by now."

"Probably." The detective let out what might have been described as a sigh. "Truth to tell, we're not getting far with these robberies. Whoever's doing it has the luck of the devil, and not one bit of pretty has turned up anywhere around here."

Rick sat forward. "Do you think they're hoarding it? Until the heat wears off?"

"If they did they'd be crazy," Buckman said candidly. "I hope they are, because if that's the case we're more likely to come across it."

"Yeah." Rick compressed his lips. "If I'm honest, most of it is just stuff. I can replace it. The laptop, on the other hand … I really want that back. And the watch. The rest they can keep."

Buckman glanced at the form, then chuckled. "Don't hold your breath, Mr Castle." He stood up. "Wait here and I'll get you that copy."

Rick smiled. "I don't exactly have anywhere else to be at the moment."

With a grunt Buckman headed out of the squad room, just as a uniformed officer came in the other end. He approached the desk.

"Detective Buckman?" he asked.

Rick looked up, and wondered if he was getting old. This cop looked like he should still be playing hide'n'seek, not trying to catch bad guys. "He's just popped out." He eyed the file in the young man's hands. "Anything you want me to give him?"

The officer looked relieved. "It's the autopsy results on the Jane Doe from the beach." He held out the buff folder.

"I'll make sure he gets it."

"Thanks."

"You're … new around here, aren't you?" Rick asked.

"Yes, sir. My second day." He ran a hand over a newly buzz cut blond head. "I've been all over the place trying to find Detective Buckman." A guilty look crossed his face. "Look, I shouldn't have said that. Don't tell anyone, okay?"

Rick smiled. "Don't worry. I won't. If anybody asks, you say you left it on his desk half an hour ago."

The boy – he was little more than that – grinned. "Thanks," he said sincerely, and hurried off.

Rick watched him go. Probably only a couple of years older than Alexis. He shook his head, then glanced around. Nobody watching. With a lift to his lips, he opened the file and began to speed read.

* * *

"I was checking through some old editions of the East Hampton Ledger," Esposito said, "just seeing what I could see, and this grabbed me." He clicked the mouse to bring up a picture.

Kate stared at it. "Looks like the vic."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?"

"I take it she isn't."

"Well, not unless they've invented time travel in the last few days and not told anyone about it."

"So who is she?"

Esposito manipulated the mouse to bring the text forward. "Take a look."

It was an article from the Ledger, on the same site they'd looked at before. This time, though, there was a red banner across the top of the page.

"Archive?" Kate read, raising her eyebrows in query.

"Exactly." He tapped the screen with his pen. "And it gets curiouser."

The headline to this particular piece of journalism was bigger and bolder than the one announcing the discovery of a body. In fact, in some ways, it was the total opposite.

_**Financial Heiress Still Missing – Presumed Drowned.**_ In slightly smaller print the sub-heading announced _**Husband Distraught – Says Wife was Unhappy**_.

Kate's lips twitched. "A dozen words and they manage to convey suicide."

"A good reporter can tell you everything in less," Esposito said in a slightly sing-song voice.

"Are you quoting Castle?"

"No."

"Good." She leaned forward to read the text.

"You want the Cliff Notes?"

Wondering if maybe she should look into getting reading glasses, Kate nodded. "Tell me." She moved back to perch on the next desk.

"Mrs Carly Mackintosh, 36, mother of one, disappeared off her husband's yacht in the middle of the night. There'd been a party on board, everyone says she was fine, if a little drunk, but still alive and kicking when they got off."

"Disembarked."

"Whatever. Anyway, the husband didn't report her missing until the next morning. Apparently, according to him, she'd been miserable for weeks, and insisted they have separate beds. Berths," he corrected before she could.

She smiled slightly. "On a yacht like that?" She nodded towards the second picture on the screen. "It looks more like a hotel, so beds will do."

"Yeah. Probably cost more than mine, Ryan's and your apartment put together."

"Did they find her?" she asked, not wanting to go into the issues of places to live. The loss of so much of her stuff still rankled.

"Nope. The police said there was no sign of a struggle, but there was a shoe on deck with a broken strap."

"So either suicide or an accident." She narrowed her eyes. "I take it you're sure this isn't the same body."

"Pretty sure." He scrolled up to the very top of the page. "This is from the edition printed August 17, 1979."

"Thirty-one years ago?"

Esposito was impressed. It had taken him half a minute and surreptitious use of his fingers to work it out. "Exactly. Do you think she was frozen?"

Kate's mind went back to the woman at the construction site, kept in a freezer for five years before being dumped. "I don't know, but my gut says no."

"Beckett."

Kate stood up and turned to the captain's office. He was standing in the doorway. "Sir?"

"Pack your bags."

"What?" She belatedly remembered herself. "What, sir?"

"I've pulled a few strings. You've got a week's paid leave of absence."

Her jaw dropped. "Paid?"

"You're observing the East Hampton Police Department. How they do things. See if an exchange of techniques could benefit either of us."

"Sir, if this is just to help Castle get out of what I'm sure is a self-imposed jam, I –"

"Didn't you hear what I said? You're there to observe. Officially."

"But I have work … cases …" She tried to think of a valid reason not to go.

"I'm sure Tweedledum and Tweedledee can hold the fort," Montgomery said. "Besides, I need you to keep an eye on my investment. Castle owes me money from the last poker game." He ducked back into his office.

"Tweedledum?" She glanced at Esposito.

He grinned. "Nah, I'm Tweedledee. Ryan's Tweedledum. Emphasis on the _dum_."

"I'm going to tell him you said that."

"I've called him worse."

"Oh, I know." She bit her lip, unsure what to do.

"Beckett, are you still here?" Montgomery was once more silhouetted in his doorway. She couldn't quite see, but she was sure he was smiling. "Go, before I change my mind and send Karpowski."

She went.

* * *

The sun was dropping towards the horizon, making deep, cool shadows angle away from everything. CSU had been by, fingerprinting diligently, but not holding out much hope. The thief, or thieves, had worn gloves, something they were more than happy to inform him. They left behind a thin film of powder over everything that felt greasy to the touch.

Rick wiped his hand down his shorts leg and stared at the screen. He'd been working on Naked Heat, trying to let his fingers remember what he'd written in the missing chapter, and coming up with something so unlikely it made him smile. Perhaps it was the new laptop he'd purchased in town, the unfamiliar feel of the keys, but it just wasn't working.

Jerry, the cab driver, had been as good as his word, and was still waiting outside the station when Rick came out, and had taken him first to the car rental office (they were not happy about the stolen vehicle and insisted he continue paying until it was either found or the insurance kicked in) and then to a small retailer he knew where Rick was able to purchase a new computer, small TV and a cellphone, all surprisingly reasonable in price.

"Not stolen, are they?" Rick asked as they carried them back to the cab.

"Would I do that to you?" the cabbie responded, laughing.

"Hmmn." Still, he made sure he gave Jerry a damn good tip.

Now it was just him, words on a screen that he was tempted to delete, and an increasingly growly belly that was declaring he hadn't eaten since breakfast and when was he going put that right?

The door knocked. Well, not the door itself, of course, but someone used the large brass knocker, three times.

Rick had decided against an electric bell, considering it didn't fit in with his idea of the beach house. He'd toyed briefly with the idea of a real bell, one that could be rung by swinging the clapper, but gave it up when he realised the brisk wind could rise very quickly, and he'd be up and down to see if it was a visitor every five minutes. Instead he chose a wrought iron affair, heavy enough not to be caught by the breeze but light enough not to bring the house down when it was used. In a fit of whimsy he'd chosen a mermaid, poised as if diving into the water. The part of her torso a visitor had to grab always made him smile.

He stood up and stretched, hearing his joints popping slightly from sitting too long in the same position. Funny how he never seemed to have that problem back home, even writing with the computer perched on one leg as he slouched in the armchair. Maybe it wasn't the location so much as the situation.

Shaking his arms out he headed for the front door, his eyes fixed on a blur through the stained glass panel. Reaching it he peered through a clear section, and his heart missed a beat.

It couldn't be her. She was in New York. Doing … whatever it was she did with a certain Robbery detective. Except even with her back to him he would swear …

She turned. "Are you going to let me in or not?"

His hand fumbled on the lock but he managed to get the door open. "Kate?"

"Who did you expect? The tooth fairy?"

"Honestly?"

She gazed levelly at him, the silence between them growing, until she finally barked, "Castle."


	5. Chapter 5

All the way along the 495, then the more picturesque roads east, Kate had been arguing with herself.

"I should just go home. Go back to the city, tell Montgomery it was a wild goose chase, and get back to work."

"He needs you."

"Yeah, like a hole in the head."

"A mutual hole."

"I don't need him."

"Yes, you do."

"How?"

"He makes life interesting."

"That kind of interesting I could do without."

"That's why you nearly burst into tears when he left?"

"I did not!"

"Why are you lying to yourself?"

"I am not lying. I was just … surprised."

"Surprised. Is that what they call being jilted now?"

"He's a grown man! He can do what he likes."

"And he wanted you. Until you –"

"Oh, shut up."

It hadn't helped. Not even the sun streaming ever lower into the back of the car and prickling on her neck had been able to break the vicious circle of annoyance and hurt pride.

He'd be glad to see her, of course. Or maybe he wouldn't. Just because the captain had said he was on his own, didn't mean he was lacking female company. She might be interrupting … something.

That thought almost made her turn the car around and head for the concrete and chrome hills.

And the truth was, he didn't have good taste when it came to women. Meredith was a flake, in the widest sense of the word, Gina was a blood-sucking bitch … and as for Eligible Bachelorette Number 2, well, that was always doomed to failure. Way too skinny, and her hair looked like it had been treated to within an inch of its life. Then there was the actress, who'd slept with him so he'd put a good word in with the film producers … No wonder he couldn't settle down. Maybe it was all Kyra Blaine's fault for leaving him in the first place.

Kate sighed. Not that she cared. Not at all.

Anyway, so what if he did have someone staying with him? He was a big boy. And there was sure to be a room available somewhere for her to sleep.

They'd spent the night under the same roof before, of course, like when he stayed at hers then she at his while the bomber tried to make things hot for her. And that wasn't counting the number of times she'd found Castle asleep in the break room, a cold cappuccino in front of him. He'd even managed to doze off once during an interrogation, but that wasn't his fault as such – he'd been in the middle of the rewrites for Heat Wave, and his ex-wife Gina had been doing her editorial best to kill him with her demands.

Kate harrumphed out loud and wriggled into a more comfortable position in the driver's seat.

Gina. Mrs Castle, mark two.

She still couldn't understand how he could have left for the summer with her. Oh, she knew some of it was down to her own self – he'd asked and she'd said no, that she was with Tom, that all they could ever be was friends. But when she realised that she wanted more than that … well, damn it, Castle should have known, should have been able to read between the lines. And instead all he did was walk out of the precinct with his arm around that witch.

No. Not a witch. That was probably doing angry wiccans a disservice. Best to go with the initial description of blood sucking bitch from hell.

Martha had called Kate up to find out how she was, and to commiserate, but she'd had to … not lie, exactly, but not tell the whole truth.

"I'm fine."

"Darling, you can tell me. And I think Richard's behaved abominably."

"You didn't tell him that, did you?"

"Of course. He's my son."

"Martha, he can go to the Hamptons with whoever he chooses. And if he chooses to go with Gina, then … that's fine."

"I don't believe you."

She'd made herself laugh. "Honestly, I have so much work to do I couldn't even think about going away. So it's fine."

"Kate, sweetie, you say it's fine again and I'll come down there and personally smack you."

Funny how people kept threatening to do that to her. "And I'd arrest you for assaulting a police officer."

"It wouldn't be the first time."

This time the laugh was more genuine. "I know."

By the time she'd put the phone down she felt better, more cheerful, which was probably the purpose of the call. But it still didn't explain what temporary insanity had taken hold of Castle.

Or her own, for that matter, which Lanie had been more than happy to point out.

"Javier told me you were off to the Hamptons," her best friend had said as she walked into the apartment.

Kate, in the bedroom she was borrowing until she managed to get her new place furnished, groaned slightly. "Bad news travels fast."

Lanie leaned on the door jamb. "Bad?"

"I was ordered to go."

"So you don't want to."

Kate tossed her hands into the air. "Why won't anyone believe me? I don't feel that way about Castle."

Lanie tried not to smile, and failed. "Did I mention him?"

Kate glared at her friend, then sighed heavily and dropped onto the corner of the bed. "Oh, Lanie. What the hell am I doing?"

"Packing. And all the wrong things, too." The ME crossed the room and picked up a smart suit jacket. "You will not be needing this."

"I might." She reached for it but it was twitched from her grasp.

"Nope. Do you know what the temperature is up there?"

"I'm going to be working, not sunbathing."

"Can't you do both?" Lanie asked, holding up a skimpy t-shirt with thin spaghetti straps.

"No." This time Kate was able to grab it and toss it back into the chest of drawers. Then something Lanie had said earlier penetrated. "Anyway, since when did you call Esposito by his first name?" A light bulb went on over her head. "Or, for that matter, when did he start calling you Lanie?" Of course he had, when he'd talked about asking her if she could use her influence with the Hampton ME.

"No idea what you're talking about." Lanie busied herself retrieving the top. "You have to take this. It's a good colour for you."

"I told you, I'm not going on vacation." Kate took it from her, dropping it nevertheless into the open case. "And stop changing the subject. You. Esposito. Give."

Lanie didn't blush, but she did laugh guiltily. "Okay. Okay." She perched on the edge of the bed. "We're ... thinking about seeing each other."

"Thinking?"

"Exactly."

"Only thinking? Nothing more?" Something in her friend's face kicked her police senses. "When, Lanie?" she asked, in her best interrogation technique.

The ME glared at her, then briefly closed her eyes. "You remember the book launch for Heat Wave?"

"How could I forget?" So close to actually talking about feelings with Castle, and they end up fighting instead. Typical of their relationship.

Lanie didn't know what was going through Kate's mind, and said, "Well, he took me home. I invited him in for coffee, we talked, one thing led to another and ... he stayed for breakfast."

"Lanie!"

"Well, you asked, girl."

"That I did." Her lips twitched. "So ... what was it like?"

"I don't kiss and tell."

"Of course you do. What about Mitchell Locke? You almost drew me pictures."

"That was because it had been so long for you I wasn't sure you hadn't forgotten what goes where."

Kate had given her friend _that_ look and resumed packing.

And now here she was, standing in the sunlight, facing Richard Castle, framed so artistically in the doorway, looking like he was going for an Olympic record in gaping like a goldfish.

"Close your mouth," she advised.

"Oh. Yeah." He did just that, but it didn't stop the staring.

He looked terrible, she had to admit. His hair, while often too short for her taste, was in need of a trim, and that beard … well, she'd seen better on cocker spaniels. As for the garish shirt and knee length shorts … It was obvious Alexis had a bigger impact on how he dressed than she'd realised, since this minute he looked less the suave, sophisticated author-about-town, and more like a beach bum.

"Well?" she asked. "Aren't you going to let me in?"

"Oh. Yes. Sorry." He stood to one side so she could pass him into the cool of the house, and she could tell he'd taken took the opportunity to breathe in her scent. Not cherries today. This time she'd chosen a body butter that was still fruity, but citrus. Orange, with just a hint of acidic lemon to cut through the sweetness. And she'd at least managed to get some time in the sun – her bare shoulders were kissed with brown, although with any luck he would think it had been with Tom, having a picnic in the park.

She heard the door close and his footsteps following her as she headed for the light at the end of the short hallway, and as she stepped into the main living area, he passed her, turning to look at her.

"Sorry," he said, smiling. "Bad host. Would you like a coffee? Something stronger?"

"Do you have anything cold?"

"Coming up." He hurried away, giving her the opportunity to ponder her surroundings.

She didn't know why, but when he spoke about having a beach house somehow she'd imagine a shack built of driftwood, right on the sand. The location was right, at least from the view out of the open French windows, but this was no shanty.

Somehow the room reminded her of Castle's loft apartment, despite the different style, and she wondered if the same interior decorator had been responsible, and whether it was pre- or post-sex. As open as possible, she could imagine the morning sun streaming through the large windows, warming the cool, pale wood and sailcloth-covered sofas.

This was obviously where he worked, too – an old table was covered in pages of hand-written notes, and a laptop rested on top (newly purchased, apparently, at least from the torn packaging tossed haphazardly into the corner). She resisted the almost overwhelming urge to touch the mouse pad and lose the screensaver, to see what he'd been writing. Probably Naked Heat.

Or maybe he'd been surfing internet porn again.

"Here." He was back, holding out one of two bottles of imported beer, beads of condensation glistening on them like miniature diamonds.

"Thanks." She took it, putting it to her lips and taking a sip, feeling the chilled liquid running down her throat towards her stomach.

He seemed mesmerised, but suddenly asked, "Oh, do you want a glass?"

"No. This is fine." She walked to the window and out onto the patio, tempted to kick off her sandals and run across the beach to the sea.

"You could," he said quietly behind her, reading her mind.

"You were right about the view." Leaning on the railing, she could feel him gazing at her.

"You should have said yes."

She ignored the comment, instead asking, "So … Gina around?"

From the corner of her eye she was gratified to see him colour a little before scratching his right ear with his left hand. "Uh … no. She's … back in the city."

"Really. Couldn't take all this nature?"

"Couldn't take me, more like." He smiled ruefully. "We … agreed to go our separate ways. Again."

"And there I was thinking it was true love."

"No. Not for a long time."

That sounded more sincere than she was used to from Castle, and she turned to look him squarely in the face. "Then what?"

"What?"

"Why invite her?" She'd wanted to know the answer for so long that it seemed natural to be asking.

"You said no."

Her jaw dropped a little. "So you're blaming me?"

"No. No, not at all." He was backpedalling. "I didn't mean that. Just … I didn't want to be alone. Alexis was going to Princeton, my mother was doing summer stock …" He closed his eyes, holding his breath to stop the babbling. When he looked at her again he appeared to be in better control. "I'm not used to being on my own," he admitted, his voice almost too soft for her to hear. "Anyway, what about Schle … Demming?" he countered.

Her chin came up. "What about him?"

"Won't he be missing you?"

"Why should he?"

"Aren't you … I mean, you and he are … aren't you?"

She gazed at him for a long moment, debating whether to tell him the truth or not, then asked, "Don't you want to know why I'm here?"

"I assumed Alexis called you."

"I haven't spoken to her."

"Oh." He seemed surprised. "Then why?"

She turned back to the sea, resting her elbows on the wooden railing, one knee bent so her hip jutted out. "Captain Montgomery thought I might be interested in how another police department works."

"And he chose this one?"

"Purely at random."

He mirrored her position. "You missed me. Admit it."

"Not on pain of torture."

"Then they did. Ryan and Esposito."

"Your name hasn't passed their lips."

"Lanie?"

"No." It was a game, and she was prepared to admit, if only to herself, that she knew why they were playing it. Anything to not address the elephant in the room.

"They don't really think I did it," Rick said before taking a mouthful of beer and swilling it around his mouth, not even bothering to pretend she wouldn't know what he was talking about. "Particularly after the ME's report."

This time she couldn't help herself. She twisted her head to stare at him. "You've seen it?"

"I might have … managed to sneak a peek." He turned to face her again. "According to the pathologist, our Jane Doe drowned, but it was a close run thing, considering the amount of narcotics in her system." He shrugged. "Oh, and there was a blow to her head, but they think she might have hit it going into the water."

Okay. He was being businesslike, so she'd do the same. "Do they have any idea who she is yet?"

"Nope." He glanced out at the beach. "But I'm not surprised. They're canvassing all the motels, hotels and guest houses, but this is the Hamptons. There are a lot of places she could have been staying or maybe she just drove up from New York." He smiled at her. "Like you did." There was a microscopic pause. "And thanks."

"What for?"

"Coming to my rescue."

"Do you need rescuing?"

"Not really."

"Then I can go home?" She put the bottle on top of the railing, balancing it.

"Don't."

Close. Perhaps too close. She picked up the beer again. "Maybe not right this second. I haven't finished my drink yet."

"No, you haven't."

"So what else did the ME's report say?"

"That she'd been in the water about twenty-four hours before I found her, that there was evidence of sexual activity a short time before that but no viable DNA, and she'd been doped."

"What with?" She knew she could ask, that he'd remember. He had that kind of mind.

"Benzodiazepine."

"A sleeping pill."

"Sleeping _pills_, emphasis on the plural." He took a large mouthful of his own drink. "From the amount they measured, probably two dozen or more, mixed with alcohol. And they didn't find any traces of capsules in her stomach."

"Unlikely to be an accidental overdose, then." She stared at the horizon, considering the case. "So, drugged, possibly raped, then ... what, dumped in the ocean?"

"Off a boat. At least, that's my theory." Again he looked out to sea, pointing at a couple of yachts in view. "Late at night, nobody's going to see someone dragging a semi-conscious woman on deck. Then all it takes is leaning her against the railing, a little push, and ..." He mimed a body falling. "There are a dozen marinas around here, each of them filled with men who think they can do what they like because they have money. You'd never know there was a recession, not from the cash they throw around."

"So not like you."

"No." He was being serious. "Compared to them, I'm a church mouse. An upstart with delusions of grandeur. They don't even see me." He exhaled heavily through his nose. "And one of them killed her."

"So you're not planning on looking into this," she teased.

He didn't laugh. "I found the body, Kate. _I_ found her. Somehow I feel like I ... like I owe it to her. She's somebody's daughter, sister, wife maybe. They're wondering where she is. Why she hasn't come home, or at least called." He leaned closer and repeated, "I found her, Kate. I'm responsible for what happens next."

"Are you growing up?" she asked, unable to stop the words from spilling from her lips.

"Had to happen sometime," he admitted. "And it must be your positive influence."

His stomach rumbled, and she half-smiled. "You're hungry," she pointed out.

"Yeah. Not eating will get you that way." He shrugged. "Not that it matters. It won't hurt me to drop a few pounds."

"You need to eat." She felt herself taking charge. "You're hungry. So am I. Where's a good place to go and eat?"

"There are several restaurants close by but ... Kate, I don't have a car."

"I do."

"You've been drinking."

"Not enough." She put down the still half full bottle of beer. "But I'm not going anywhere with you dressed like that. Go change."

He suddenly smiled at her, a flash of the old Castle. "Are you telling me what to do?"

"Yes."

"Fine. Just so as I know."

"And shave."

"What? Why?"

"Because I said so."

"No, I mean why should I? I'll only have to grow it back when you leave."

"I'm not leaving."

"You might."

"Well ... I'm not."

"Everyone does." This time the flash was more like self-pity. "Alexis, Mother ..."

"They haven't left you. They'll both be home for the start of September."

It was as if she hadn't spoken. "And you'll go back to Demming –"

"I'm not with Demming," she murmured. Then she realised what she'd said, and felt her cheeks burn. "I mean Tom."

He blinked. "You're not?"

"I ... we ... decided to go our separate ways." No need to boost his ego by telling him why.

"Oh. I'm so sorry." His eyes didn't leave her face, and she would swear on a stack of Bibles that he was being sincere. "When did that happen?"

"It was ..." She paused again, not sure what to say. Then his stomach growled again, even louder this time, and she grabbed hold of the lifeline. "Later, Castle. I'm not having you faint from hunger. It would be messy, and I don't intend clearing it up." She pointed up to where she thought his bedroom might be. "Go."

For a second she thought he might argue, but he chuckled instead.

"Your wish, Detective Beckett ..." He bowed low and strode away, whistling something unrecognisable.


	6. Chapter 6

They'd gone to one of the finest seafood restaurants in East Hampton, where Rick's name got them a table out on the veranda, and they enjoyed one of the best meals he could remember since ... well, the last best meal. Oddly enough, though, he was pretty sure it was the company rather than the food, as good as it was.

God, he'd missed this. Well, not _this_ particularly, at least not the sitting opposite her eating a damn fine lobster and scallop platter, but the back and forth banter, the tossing of theories out into the firmament, the ... the feeling he wasn't just some hack writer going through the motions of creativity.

Now they sat in the dying light, sipping coffee, chatting about nothing in particular, avoiding the subjects of Tom Demming and Gina Cowell like the plague.

"So what was stolen?" Kate eventually asked.

"What?"

"In the robbery." She sat back, an amused expression on her face.

His eyes widened, their blueness hidden by the approaching night. "How did you –"

"I'm a cop, Castle." She shook her head even as she smiled. "New laptop, space for a huge TV and sound system but nothing there, the paranoid way you made sure the front door was locked ..."

He chuckled. "And I thought I was so blasé."

"Besides, I know fingerprint powder when I feel it," she went on.

"I tried wiping everything down, but it didn't seem to work." He gazed at her. "But you're right. That was pretty much what went, as well as the hire car, my wallet and watch."

"The Rolex?"

"Mmn."

"Pity. I liked that."

"Oh, and a couple of bottles of champagne from the fridge. And a t-shirt, but I think that might have been Gina."

Her lips twitched. "So someone's living it up on your credit cards right now?"

"They were in the safe." Lifting the bottle of wine from the cooler, he looked expectantly at her, but when she declined he poured the remainder into his glass. "I use cash as much as I can down here," he finished.

"How come?"

"I tend to try and use the smaller shops, retailers and such. They prefer cash and it makes for a good atmosphere." He grinned, scratching his newly-shaved chin. "Besides, I can understand how Buckman feels." He'd told her about the detective, giving her the heads up since she was going to be seeing him in the morning.

"Really?"

"Well, to some degree. We spent every summer here when I was a kid, before the money went and my mother decided to follow her calling and go back on the road."

"Right." She still remembered the tale he'd woven about why he was so fascinated with murder, and the annoyance she'd felt when it turned out to be just that – a story. So far she hadn't got him to tell the truth, but that was nose-twisting for another time. She changed tack. "You haven't asked me if we found out anything about your Jane Doe."

He shrugged, and his linen jacket – worn against the breeze blowing off the water – settled around his shoulders again. "I figured if you knew something you'd tell me eventually."

"So you're not dying of curiosity."

"Too much food, maybe. Curiosity, no."

"So if I leave you to stew for a day or two, you won't accuse me of being cruel?"

"Not at all."

"Good, because I don't feel in the mood for talking shop."

"No problem." He smiled and looked around, his fingers tapping morse code on the wine glass stem. "It's nice here, isn't it?"

She nodded. "Very."

"You want a brandy or something?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Good. Good." He smiled briefly, then looked out again at the lights of the yachts, flickering across the waves.

Despite her best efforts to keep them still, Kate's lips were twitching, and it was all she could do to stop herself laughing. "Castle ..."

His eyes flicked back to her. "All right. I give in. What?"

"What?"

"Kate ..."

"So you don't want me to leave you hanging?"

"Kate."

"Okay, Castle. Not this time." She reached down into the bag she'd brought with her, and withdrew a plain, unmarked manila folder. Opening it, she took out a photo and laid it in front of him.

He stared. "That's her. That's the woman on the beach."

"You're sure."

He lifted his eyes. "Positive."

"Interesting."

Despite his assurances that he wasn't at all curious, he felt it coiling in his belly, and not getting on at all well with the lobster. "Kate?"

"It isn't," she said. "That's Carly Mackintosh. She disappeared off her yacht in –"

"1979," Rick interrupted.

She managed to withhold the sigh. Of course he knew. He had the kind of mind where useless pieces of information were stuck like seeds in taffy, just waiting for the flash of inspiration to germinate them into full-blown plot points.

Damn. Now he was making her think like a florid writer!

To cover her annoyance, she took a breath and said, "You know the story."

"I told you, we spent every summer here for a long time, and this was one of them." His gaze slid from her to focus somewhere in the night. "I suppose I was eight years old. Mother was fascinated by it. And you couldn't turn around for it being in the media."

"You were here?" The annoyance had turned to surprise.

He nodded slowly, seeing the newspaper articles in his mind's eye. "Carly Mackintosh, something of a celebrity due to the obscene number of zeroes in the family bank accounts, disappears off her yacht after a party, never to be seen again." He brought his attention back. "The rumour mill suggested maybe she'd run off with a young lover, but nobody really believed it. No matter how unhappy she might have been in her marriage, everyone agreed she was a devoted mother. Hell, it was her money – if she wanted a divorce the pre-nup was supposed to be watertight."

"Castle, you were eight. How did you know all this?"

He laughed lightly. "My mother has never exactly been backward in passing on juicy bits of gossip. Plus, she knew Mrs Mackintosh."

Her surprise was growing. "I didn't know Martha moved in such exalted circles."

"She didn't. Their circles didn't exactly overlap, but I suppose you could say they collided once in a while." He shook his head. "And the point is it wasn't just a talking point in the Hamptons – the Mackintosh family home was in New York, and Carly's father, Niall McGregor, had his finger in a lot of city pies." He chuckled. "The old man put up a crazy reward, just in case she'd been kidnapped, but nobody ever collected."

"I know. Esposito found a couple of articles in the Ledger archives." She tapped the folder. "Although I'd say it was too late to try now if that was the idea."

"Yeah. He died barely a year after his daughter went missing."

"Of a broken heart?"

"Very literary." He smiled. "I knew I was a good influence on you."

"I could take that as an insult."

"Don't."

"Anyway, it wasn't just rumours about her running off that were doing the rounds. I seem to recall there being suggestions of foul play, although that probably stuck in my mind because it's much more fun to an eight year old than an accident, tripping overboard because of too much booze."

"You know, I wonder sometimes if you weren't a very creepy child."

"No. Just normal."

"I'm so glad I didn't have any brothers."

He sighed. "You know, as much as I'd love to go into that right now, I think that's a conversation for another time, don't you?"

"Or never."

He grinned then picked up the photo again. "You're sure this is Carly Mackintosh? Not Jane Doe?"

"Believe me, I'm sure."

"Damn. Makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up."

"I know what you mean."

"What else do you have in there?" he asked, nodding at the file.

"Not a lot," she admitted. "We didn't exactly have much to work on. Esposito did print out the articles though." She handed them across.

He read them quickly, one after the other, then paused. Flicking through them again, he went back to one in particular. "Okay, now my goosebumps have goosebumps."

She leaned forward. "What?"

"If you weren't likely to laugh at me, I'd have to say that time travel must be possible."

"Castle, explain."

He put the article on the table so they could both see, and tapped the photo filling half the page. "This is the last picture of her, right?"

Kate nodded slowly. "According to the blurb it was taken the night of the party. They had hired a photographer to take pictures of the guests arriving." She shrugged. "Apparently it was quite the thing at the time."

"Catch them all looking at their best and sober, as opposed to when they disembark, the worse for wear and falling down the gangplank."

"Which you'd probably know all about."

He smirked. "Ah, happy days." He mentally shook himself. "Anyway, that's not the point."

"So what is?"

"The dress."

She studied it, halter-necked, jewel-coloured. "It's beautiful."

"It's the same one the dead girl was wearing."

"Unlikely," Kate said. "It's a Fabrigazi, at least according to a report in Vanity Fair. Custom-made, one-off."

"Kate, with the best will in the world, I know what I'm talking about. Details, remember? I'm really good with the details."

She decided not to mention his occasional inability to read a licence plate at less than twenty feet, so instead said, "Okay. Then it looks the same."

"And the watch: a Longines Grande Classique. The same. And one sandal. The same." He paused. "Anyone checked for tachyon anomalies in the past few days?"

"Castle, your Jane Doe isn't Carly Mackintosh."

"Then somebody did their damndest to make her look like it."

Kate sat back. "You think this was deliberate?"

"Don't you?"

"If you're right about the autopsy findings –"

"I am."

"– then I'll give you she was murdered. But why would anyone want to make her look like a woman who's been missing thirty years?"

"Maybe it's her daughter."

Kate shook her head this time. "There was only one child, and it was a boy. Name of –"

"Eric."

"Do you have to do that?" she complained. "Interrupt me all the time?"

"Sorry," Rick said, not looking it in the slightest. "I didn't put it together before, but I knew him. Kind of."

"Eric Mackintosh?"

"He was the same age as me, and I suppose we met maybe half a dozen times. Mostly at functions where we had to amuse ourselves."

"You got into trouble?"

"Nothing was ever proved that I recall."

"But you should have?"

He grinned. "Kate, you know me too well."

"Far too well, Castle."

"Aren't you ever going to call me Rick?"

"Don't hold your breath."

"I tried that once when I was six. I wanted a pair of roller skates and my mother said no, so I proceeded to stop breathing until she changed her mind."

"Did she?"

"No. But she did look a bit sorry as they loaded me into the ambulance."

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. "Aren't you ever serious?"

"Life's too short."

"Well, it was for Carly Mackintosh."

"That's my Kate, bringing us back to the matter in hand."

"I'm not your Kate."

There was a pause, when the conversation could have veered into far more dangerous territory, then Rick took a mental step back. He coughed lightly, then said, "Yes, well, maybe I decided I didn't want the roller skates that much. But it was a close run thing."

They were going to have to talk about it sometime or other, but maybe they could put it off long enough so that, when it came, it didn't hurt quite as much as they were both afraid it would.

Kate felt a familiar nagging behind her ribs, something she recognised from another time, when she watched the man in front of her walk away, his arm around another woman. "Stop changing the subject," she ordered, doing exactly that. "You and Eric."

"There was no 'me and Eric'. Just a couple of boys in a group of maybe ten or a dozen looking for mischief. I haven't seen him in thirty years. I doubt he'd remember me."

"If this woman is anything to do with his mother's disappearance, you can be sure you'll be making his reacquaintance."

"Kate, you know what I said about there being people around here who think of me as a newcomer?"

She smiled. "Church mouse?"

"God, Kate, Eric Mackintosh could buy me, you, and half the Hamptons on the money he inherited when his father died ten years ago."

"So he won't see you?"

"If he ran over me in one of his Bugatti Veyrons he wouldn't even notice."

"Then that's going to be an interesting meeting."

* * *

As they stepped out of the restaurant, Kate shivered slightly.

"Cold?" Rick asked.

"The breeze. We were sheltered inside."

He smiled and shrugged off his jacket. "Here."

"No. I'm fine."

"Kate, let me be a gentleman for a change."

She glared at him for a moment, then half turned, letting him drape the jacket, warm from his body heat, around her shoulders. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." They headed towards the car, parked a little distance away at the far end of the lot. "Do you want me to drive?"

"You've been drinking."

"Only red wine. And so've you."

"I had half a glass."

"Really? Is that all?"

"That's all."

"Why won't you ever let me drive?" he asked, somewhat plaintively. "I'm good."

"And one day we might find out." She smiled, her face lit by the lamps placed along the path. "But not today."

He laughed. "Spoilsport." Then for some reason his brain disengaged and he asked, "So what happened with Demming?"

Her smile switched off. "Don't go there, Castle."

"I just thought ... we were talking ..." He felt awkward, and tried to backpedal. "No, look, forget I asked."

She turned and looked at him. "You really want to know? You want to know how we were getting closer? How we were going to spend the summer together?"

"Kate –"

"No, you wanted to hear." She took a step forward. "Tom was a good man. I liked him. A lot. And I told him we couldn't see each other again."

"So you broke it off?" Rick said before he could stop himself.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because." Anger took hold of her, and, despite the fact that her inner Kate was telling her she was overreacting, she couldn't stop it. "And don't look so damn smug – it was nothing to do with you."

"No?"

"No. It had just run its course."

"The last time I saw the pair of you it looked like it still had legs. And arms. And mouths."

"You were stalking me?"

"Kate, you were kissing in the station!"

"What about you and Gina?" she asked in retaliation, hating the venom she could hear in her voice. "You spend months telling me she's the wife from hell, that she only wanted you for your money and talent, and not you, that – and I quote – your relationship was almost entirely sexless, then after one telephone conversation you decide you were wrong and she's the love of your life?"

"It wasn't like that."

"And then you have the nerve to have her meet you at the precinct!"

"You said no, Kate."

"So you are blaming me." She shook her head. "I should have known better. I thought maybe, just maybe you'd grown up a little, willing to take responsibility for your life, for your actions, and that perhaps we might be able to –" She stopped, slamming her lips together.

He took a step closer, into her space. "What, Kate? We might be able to what?"

Her head came up, her hair swinging back, that angry dent between her eyebrows speaking volumes. "That we might be able to work together again." She pulled his jacket from her shoulders and tossed it to him, turning away. "I was wrong."

He felt a flash of guilt fire through him, even as he realised she wasn't telling the whole truth. "Kate, wait."

"No." She tugged her keys from her pocket, but they slipped through her fingers, falling onto the gravel. "Shit." She went down onto her knees, trying to feel under the car.

"Damn it." He dropped to his heels, peering into the shadows.

"Madam? Sir?" It was one of the parking attendants.

They hadn't bothered with valet parking, since it was a weekday and the restaurant wasn't full, but Kate found herself wishing they had. She could have snatched the keys from his fingers, gotten into her car and driven off in a swirl of grit thrown up by the tyres, a spectacular and fitting exit. As it was ... "I dropped my keys," she ground out.

"A moment." He ran back to his desk, and in less than a minute was down next to her, a powerful torch shining its beam under the chassis.

There, just an inch from her fingers, were the keys. Reaching far enough, she grasped them in her palm and stood up. "Thanks."

"My pleasure."

Rick pulled a note from his billfold and tucked it into the attendant's top pocket. "Thank you."

The attendant didn't even look at the denomination – years in his line of work had given him something of a sixth sense when it came to monetary values – and he smiled widely. "No, thank _you_, sir." He headed back to his desk.

Kate slid the key home into the lock, then stopped, finding Rick's hand on top of hers.

"I'm sorry."

She didn't look at him. "No, you're not."

"I am." His fingers tightened. "Kate. Honestly. I am sorry."

"Okay. Now let me go."

"Where are you going?" He removed his hand, but didn't step away. "You can't drive back to the city. What would you tell Montgomery?"

She took a deep breath then turned to face him.

"I wasn't intending to. No matter how I ... I'm going to do my job. Castle. What I was ordered to do, observe the EHPD. But I'm tired. I need to find somewhere to stay, that's all."

"You'll never get a room. Not now. It's high summer, and everywhere's pretty much full up. And not cheap."

"I have money, Castle."

"Not enough for here." He dropped his head, spoke quietly. "Come back to the house."

"I'm not one of your conquests." She immediately regretted the acid behind the words, but he didn't take offence.

"I know. And I wasn't suggesting anything other than offering you a bed. And not mine," he added quickly. "If that's what you're worried about."

Her eyebrows drew together. "Why?" she asked, her clear eyes unblinking.

"I don't have any ulterior motives, Kate. It's just ... you're tired, I know you're going to find it hard to find a place, and I have a spare room."

"Why, Castle?" she asked again.

"Because I'm asking."

"Not good enough."

"Then because I want to apologise. Honestly."

She gazed at him for what seemed like hours, until he began to feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing to attention. Finally she exhaled heavily. "Get in."

"What?"

"Get in the car. One night. Then ... we'll see."

He hurried round to the passenger side before she could change her mind.

* * *

An hour or so later, in two bedrooms of the Castle beach house ... two sides of the same coin:

_Kate …_

This feels strange. He's just the other side of the wall, a few inches of wood and air separating us. His bed's so close, I could almost reach out and touch him.

And that's … disturbing.

Okay, it's also nice in a way, because he's company, and we had a good time tonight, at least at first, but … it's still disturbing.

I feel like Claudette Colbert in _It Happened One Night_. Only Castle's no Clark Gable, particularly now he's shaved. Although in a dim light … no, not even then. And there's no way the walls of Jericho are going to come tumbling down.

Funny, I haven't thought of that film in years. Mom loved it, insisted on watching it whenever it was on TV, even after Dad bought her the video. And each time she'd regale whichever one of us had been caught with the story about how the undershirt industry had suffered when audiences saw the leading man didn't wear one.

I bet Castle doesn't. If fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he had much at all to do with underwear sometimes.

No. That is not the way to get to sleep.

Damn, this pillow feels like there's rocks in it.

I can hear him moving about in bed, too. Hopefully he's just as uncomfortable as I am, but I bet he's asleep, dreaming.

I should have insisted on going to a hotel. Or maybe begged a couple of blankets and slept under the stars on the outside decking. Except with my luck he'd have insisted on joining me, wanting to go over and over what we didn't say before, pushing me until he forced to take out my gun and shoot him.

Justifiable homicide, as far as I'm concerned.

Damn.

I'm going to be useless in the morning.

_Rick ..._

She's moving around again. At least I'd already aired the spare bed, and it only took a minute to make it up. I even put one of the best pillows on it.

Not that I'm exactly tranquil myself. A cool shower, slipping under fresh sheets … and I still feel like I want to run naked down the beach and into the sea.

I wonder if she sleeps au naturel?

Okay, no, Ricky, you don't let your mind go in that direction. And if she is, it's only because it's a warm night, the net curtains wafting gently in the sea air caressing her dampened skin ...

Oh, shit. More than just the breeze is stirring.

Think of other things. Glaciers. Snow storms. Ice covered lakes. Ryan and Esposito.

Yeah, that worked.

So would what I nearly did before. Asking Kate about Demming. Of all the stupid, idiotic … I should be taken out and flogged. Or at least tarred and feathered. Maybe it was the wine. Or maybe I'm just trying to find an excuse.

Damn it but the bed feels big. Normally I don't mind, but tonight ... tonight it's as if I'm lost in it. Like I could stretch out as far as I can and still not get to the edge.

It's not like I've had trouble filling it before, but lately it hasn't felt as satisfying. Alexis would say that's no bad thing, but it's not how I live. At least, not usually. Maybe I'm getting old. I certainly haven't had this much trouble sleeping.

I'm going to be useless in the morning.

_And in the cold light of day ... _

"Sleep well?"

"Like a log."

"Me too."

Rick nodded and slid a pancake onto a plate.

"I'm not hungry," Kate started to say, but he held up the spatula.

"You're going to see Buckman this morning. You need a good breakfast inside you. Trust me on this." He smiled crookedly.

She let her lips lift. "Okay. Just the one, though."

"Wait 'til you've tasted it," Rick said, letting the normal banter between them break up the slight uncomfortableness from the night before. "You won't be able to stop."

"Huh."


	7. Chapter 7

The sun was already hot when Kate parked her car outside the East Hampton PD, and she could feel sweat trickling down her back inside her shirt as she got out.

"You should have worn that strappy number," Rick said, seeing her ease the fabric a little. "You know, the little one with the –"

"You finish that gesture and you won't be writing for a month."

"I only meant the one with the big flower on the front."

"Right."

He managed to look innocent, but the smirk reappeared as he followed her towards the building entrance. "You'd be cooler."

"It's not professional, Castle."

"It's high summer, Kate."

"And I'm not on vacation." She turned on him, the sun hitting her cheekbones. "You know, you don't have to come in. I don't exactly need my hand holding."

He smiled. "No, I think I'd better. Buckman might be offended if he found out I went past and didn't pop in to say hi."

She rolled her eyes at him and walked inside.

* * *

Detective Lyle Buckman wasn't exactly over the moon to see them, despite having been told by his own captain, in as many words, that he had to extend every courtesy to the visiting officer, while (of course) keeping up with his own caseload.

Still, at least she wasn't hard on the eyes, sitting by his desk pushing her dark hair away from her face and discreetly patting the perspiration from her top lip. Pity the same couldn't be said for her companion, the ebullient Richard Castle. Something about him ... teeth-gratingly handsome for a start.

Kate watched him watching them. "I take it that's Buckman?" she murmured.

"That's him."

The man approached. "Detective Beckett."

Kate stood up. "Detective Buckman."

Rick tried to swallow the smile. It was like seeing two prize fighters sizing each other up, testing for the other's weak points. He'd put money on Kate any day.

Buckman glanced at him. "Castle."

"Morning."

"Please, sit." Buckman waited until she had done so before he lowered himself into his chair. "I've just had an illuminating conversation with my captain," he said, his voice pleasant, conversational, entirely non-threatening.

"I don't intend getting in your way," Kate said, reading the undertones with perfect clarity.

"Just so long as you don't think you're in charge."

She shook her head. "I'm just observing."

"So it's a total coincidence that you appear just as writer boy gets mixed up in something he shouldn't."

"Hey!" Rick bridled a little – being called a boy by a man about his own age was bad enough, but to be ignored as if he wasn't there …

Kate ignored him. "Totally."

"And that _your_ captain is the same one I spoke to regarding said writer."

"These coincidences keep piling up, don't they?"

He glanced at her, then unexpectedly his face relaxed. He actually very nearly smiled. "He doesn't deserve you."

"I tell him that all the time."

"Right." He coughed slightly. "So … this observation. Just what case do you want to, you know, observe?" The lift of his eyebrows signalled, absolutely as clear as crystal, that he already knew the answer.

"Not sure. How about this body I hear turned up on the beach? The Jane Doe?"

"Althea Banks."

Rick sat up. "Who?"

"Althea Banks. That's the dead woman's name." Buckman picked up a file. "We just got an ID." He paused a moment, then passed it across to Kate.

She opened it, scanning the couple of pages quickly. "Althea Banks. Twenty-nine. Resident in Brooklyn." She held out a printed sheet. "Castle? Is this her?"

Rick studied the DMV photo, then nodded. "This girl's hair's blonde, but … yes, I'd say it was."

"Our ME says her hair was newly dyed," Buckman said. "Very recent."

"So she really isn't Carly Mackintosh."

If Rick expected Buckman to look confused, he was disappointed.

"No, she isn't." Instead Buckman chuckled. "You really think you're in Hicksville, don't you? That we're just going through the motions of being a cop because we don't work in the inner city."

"I didn't say that."

"You thought it." Buckman looked at Kate. "Both of you."

"But you know about Carly Mackintosh?" Kate prompted, not willing to answer.

"Her disappearance is famous, Detective. Even we figured out the resemblance."

"You can't tell me it didn't occur to you that it might be her," Rick said, leaning forward.

"Frozen for thirty years?" Buckman sighed. "Okay. For maybe a minute. Then our trawl through the local hotels turned up Althea Banks, who just happened not to have been seen for four or five days."

"And nobody reported her missing?" Kate asked.

Buckman shrugged, settling back into his chair, twisting it slightly. "Not many to report her. She divorced her husband for persistent infidelity six months ago, her parents are both dead, and that's about it. According to the woman she shares a house with, Althea was a mature student studying pre-law, and was taking a couple of weeks off to relax."

"Hell of a way to end a vacation."

"And you're sure this isn't Carly?" Rick asked, not willing to let it go quite yet.

"We got the dental records through, and Farraday, our ME, confirmed just half an hour ago."

"Damn. Still, it's a pretty big coincidence, don't you think?" Kate said. "Similar dress, hair …"

Buckman turned his gaze on her. "Detective, just over a year ago we had a couple of reporters come in, a man from the New York Ledger, a woman from some other newspaper. A courtesy call, they said, just to let us know they were going to be doing a piece each on the anniversary of the disappearance, poke around a bit, talk to the locals, that kind of thing." He chuckled lightly. "I'm thinking more that they were getting a dirty weekend away on expenses, seeing as they rented one room between them."

"Youngman and Fletcher?" Rick suggested.

"You know 'em?" This time Buckman was surprised.

"Of them. It's been noted before among the cognoscenti that the Ledger and the Observer often have similar stories. Only I don't recall reading anything about Mrs Mackintosh."

"Well, you wouldn't. Eric Mackintosh got an injunction against them quicker than you can order a club sandwich."

"For what reason?" Kate wanted to know.

"Money," Rick answered before Buckman could. "And I imagine there's any number of judges and lawyers around here during the summer."

"You'd better believe it," the EHPD officer said, and they wondered if he was going to let himself get wound up again about the influx of tourists, but he took a deep breath instead. "Oh, and a restraining order too. Two hundred yards or they'd be locked up."

"Was there grounds for _that_?"

"Mackintosh said they trespassed on his yacht." Buckman shrugged. "Who knows? But the point being that it isn't beyond the realms of possibility that this Althea Banks heard about Carly Mackintosh, realised the resemblance, and came down here specially to cause some trouble. Dressed up like her, dyed her hair ... maybe she thought she could get some money out of the husband."

"He's been dead ten years."

"Maybe she didn't know that."

"It's still odd, though, don't you think?"

Buckman sat forward, resting his elbow on his desk. "Of course I do. Which is why I have an appointment to see Eric Mackintosh tomorrow morning."

"An appointment?" Rick couldn't help himself this time. "Is that a good idea? Giving him time to prepare?"

"Mr Castle, Eric Mackintosh has more money than I'm ever likely to see in a lifetime." He held up a hand. "And before you say anything, no, it doesn't make a damn bit of difference. But at the moment I don't have anything like a case, just a coincidence. Tomorrow is another of these courtesy calls, just to test the waters. See if he recalls the dead woman. See if he reacts at all. Not arrest him without cause and throw my career away for nothing."

"He understands that," Kate said quietly, shooting Castle a glare than pinned him to his seat. "And the softly softly approach is the right one." _For now_. The words hung unspoken in the air.

Buckman nodded. "Exactly. And I need a hell of a lot more facts before I can go around barging in on people's lives uninvited."

"A woman died," Rick pointed out.

"I know. And I'm going to find out who did it. And hopefully why." He stood up. "Now, as I have more than just this one case to work on, and there's nothing anyone can do until tomorrow, you might as well go and enjoy the sunshine."

Kate got to her feet, Rick a moment behind her. "Where's the meeting with Mackintosh?"

"Why? Do you want to come?"

"Yes."

Her bluntness seemed to amuse Buckman, because he actually smiled. "Accompany and observe. That would be it."

"No participate and annoy, I get that. I'd just like to get a first hand look at the guy."

"Okay. Maidstone Club. 10.45 am." He shook his bullet head slightly. "He's fitting me into his busy social schedule between tennis with the Chairman and golf with the East Hampton Mayor."

"Ah."

They both looked at Rick.

"What?" Kate asked.

"I ... can't come."

"Not that I was intending you to, but why not?"

"I ... was asked to leave."

He wasn't blushing, Kate could see, but it was a close run thing. "What did you do, Castle?"

"Nothing," he insisted. "Much," he added, her eyes making him honest. "There was an incident with a certain young lady, a bottle of champagne and the 7th tee." He looked from one to the other. "How was I to know she was the treasurer's daughter?"

"You mean you were blackballed?"

"Not black, more a sort of bluish ..." He stopped at the tensing of her jaw. "Yes."

Kate glanced back at Buckman. "Are you sure you're not planning on arresting him?"

"Not right now, no."

"Pity." She shot Castle a look.

"Ow." Rick rubbed his hands up and down his arms. "Frostbite."

* * *

Back outside, Rick made a great show of welcoming the sunshine.

"Stop it," Kate ordered, heading for the car.

"You wound me, Kate," he complained.

"You deserve it."

"Anyone would think you didn't love me."

"Anyone who knows you knows I don't," she countered.

"No?"

She didn't have a chance to respond.

"Hey, Mr Castle."

Rick turned, saw a familiar taxi at the far kerb, an equally familiar man hanging out of the window. He smiled and crossed the street. "Hey, Jerry. How are you doing?"

"Good." Jerry Reyes looked up at the precinct building. "You in trouble again?"

"No more than normal."

"Buckman not giving you a hard time?"

"Oddly enough, no. You were right – he's pretty decent underneath."

"Told you." Jerry grinned, his white teeth bright in his dark face. "So you need a ride?"

"Not today." Rick nodded towards Kate, leaning on her car, watching them. "I have my own driver."

"Cute."

"She's a detective."

"Doesn't mean she isn't cute."

"True."

"She yours?"

"Not …" Not … what? Not now? Not yet? Not ever? He compromised. "Not going there, Jerry."

The cab driver laughed. "Well, if you want any help …"

"Not usually necessary in that direction." Rick half turned away, then stopped. "Actually, maybe you can help."

"What do you need?"

"Do you know the Oceanview Motel?"

"Sure. It's one of the new constructs off Montauk. I guess maybe it does have a view of the ocean if you've got a telescope and a ladder."

"Nice place?"

"Not bad. One of those folks like Buckman don't like, catering to the ever-growing summer population."

"Thanks, Jerry." Rick reached into his pocket and took out a twenty dollar bill.

Jerry held up his hand. "No, now, that's not necessary. I haven't taken you anywhere."

"Then think of it on account, for the next time I'm strapped and needing a discreet and sober exit."

Jerry laughed, snaking the note. "You're on, Mr C."

Kate coughed.

"Gotta go," Rick said.

"Oh, hey, wait." Jerry clicked his fingers. "I might have something on your stolen stuff. Just waiting for someone to get back to me."

"Really?" Rick the familiar thrill of possibly catching the bad guys, then took a breath. He shook his head. "No. Look, don't put yourself in the way of anything, okay? It's just stuff, and stuff can be replaced."

"Hey, don't worry about me. I've just been asking a few questions."

"Yeah, well, questions can be dangerous sometimes."

"I'm being careful."

Kate coughed again, and when he glanced over at her she looked pointedly at her watch.

"Now I really do have to go," Rick said, jogging across the street.

Jerry laughed. "I'll be around," he called before putting the taxi in gear and pulling smoothly away.

"Who was that?" Kate wanted to know.

"A friend."

"An old friend?"

"Probably."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, all old friends were new friends once."

"So he's new?"

"Yes. And no."

She shook her head. "Get in."

He smiled at her, the one where he knew he'd managed to get under her skin, just a little, like the prickle off a burr, and opened the passenger door. "We need to head west."

About to climb into the driver's seat herself she stopped, straightened to look at him. "West? Why?"

"Because the Oceanview Motel is off the Montauk Highway."

"So?"

"It's where Althea Banks was staying." The smile was turning increasingly smug. "It was written on a pad on Buckman's desk."

"Damn it, Castle, you have to stop reading stuff upside down," she complained.

"Why? He wasn't about to tell us. And I for one want to go take a look. Don't you?"

She didn't answer for a long moment, just staring at him with her cool, clear gaze. Then she sighed mightily and slid into the car, and he knew he'd won.


	8. Chapter 8

In the end they had to stop at a gas station to ask for directions, having taken more than one wrong turn, before pitching up at the Oceanview Motel.

As Jerry Reyes had said, it was one of the new buildings being thrown up in various places around the area, mostly away from the more historic and picture-worthy sites. And the truth was, nobody in their right minds would want to take a snap of the Oceanview. It was a series of concrete blocks set out around a dusty courtyard, solar panels on the lightly canted roofs. Half a dozen cars were parked in front of the individual units, but there was no other sign of life.

A sign indicated the way to the ubiquitous pool somewhere around the back, and someone had been going to the trouble of attempting some landscaping with bushes and flowering plants to soften the hard edges, while the curtains showing through the windows were bright and colourful, but it was never going to be more than it was – a place for people trying to save a little cash to leave their belongings and come back to sleep.

Kate parked the car and they both got out, the heat hitting them immediately. Jerry had been right – it might be called Oceanview, but they were too far inland to get anything like a refreshing breeze.

"See?" Rick said. "This is the kind of place you might have ended up if you hadn't come back to mine."

"It's not that bad," she defended.

"Liar."

She restrained the urge to thump him, and instead led the way through the glass panel door marked 'Reception'. Inside the small room, windows on two sides, a fan situated on top of a filing cabinet moved the air around desultorily, while a counter ran along one wall towards a door at the far end. Kate dropped her palm on the electric bell, and something rang in the distance.

"Coming!" A male voice, young from the sound of it. A moment later a man appeared, drying his hands on a dish cloth. He smiled. "What can I get you folks? I've got a nice double with a view of the pool."

"We're not looking for a room," Kate said, showing him her badge. "I'm Detective Beckett. This is Richard Castle."

"Is this about Miss Banks?" The young man was tall, stooped slightly as if he was afraid of his own height, with a gentle face and soft smile. "Only the police were here yesterday."

"I'm in homicide," Kate explained.

Rick had to stop his lips from twitching, noting his partner was very careful to not say which particular homicide division she worked for.

The young man ducked his head even lower. "So she is dead?"

"I'm afraid so."

"The other officers said, but I suppose I didn't want to believe it." He put the cloth down on the counter. "So what can I do for you?"

"There's just a few questions I need answering, Mr ..." She waited for him to fill in the blanks.

"Petrie. Ian Petrie. But you can call me Ian. I'm the manager."

She flashed him a brief smile. "What can you tell me about Althea Banks?"

"Well, she was a pretty lady. Nice too." Petrie was diffident, polite. "She paid up front for two weeks, but when her car didn't come back I figured she'd decided to stay with her friend for a few days."

"Her friend?" Kate was encouraging, handling the young man as only she could.

"Yeah. She talked about it at breakfast four or five days ago."

"Did she mention a name?"

"No, sorry." He did look apologetic. "She just happened to say she'd met someone. A man, I think, but I'm not sure. She never said a name." He shrugged. "We didn't talk that much."

"How did she seem about it? Meeting this person. Happy? Worried? Scared?"

Petrie thought for a moment then said, "Pleased, I'd say. More than anything. Pleased."

"What kind of car did she drive?" Rick asked.

"A Volkswagen. You know, one of those that look like a bug."

"A Beetle."

"Yes."

"Do you have the licence plate?" Kate wanted to know.

"It's in the register ..." Petrie looked a little unsure. "I did give all of this to the uniformed officers who were here last night."

"We like to corroborate information as far as possible," Kate explained, truthfully if not entirely accurately. "It saves on errors later down the line."

"Oh. Right. Of course." Petrie reached under the counter and pulled out an old-fashioned card index, flicking through the contents before taking out one in particular. "Here," he said, laying it down.

Kate quickly copied the details into her notebook – name, address in Brooklyn, car registration. "Thanks." She smiled at him. "What about her belongings?"

"Oh, the other officers took everything with them. Apart from this." He went down onto his heels, and a moment later straightened up with a small photo frame in his hand. "I found it down the back of the chest of drawers," he went on. "I was going to drop it into the police department when I went into town for supplies, but you can have it. Save me a journey."

Kate took the frame, feeling Rick at her shoulder, looking at the photo it contained. Grainy and slightly out of focus, it was of three people, two adults and a child. The man had the little girl on his hip, she was pulling his hair, and they were laughing, while the woman was smiling widely at their antics.

"Althea?" Rick murmured.

"Probably," Kate agreed. She looked up at Petrie. "Thanks. I'll get this logged in as evidence."

Petrie nodded, happy to have it off his hands.

After a few more minutes it was clear the young man didn't have much else to tell them, so after eliciting a promise that he'd call the East Hampton PD if he remembered anything, no matter how trivial, they took their leave of Ian Petrie and stepped out into the bright sunlight again.

As they walked back to the car, Kate noticed her companion appeared to be searching for something, his gaze ranging all around. "What are you looking for?" she asked.

"A house on a hill." Rick gave a theatrical shudder. "Didn't he remind you of Norman Bates?"

"Castle, Althea Banks wasn't stabbed in the shower."

"No, but I bet he has his mummified mother sitting in a rocking chair somewhere."

* * *

As they drove back towards Rick's beach house, for once it was silent in the car.

Kate was concentrating on not getting lost again, but after a while it started to get on her nerves. "What?" she asked finally.

"Mmn?"

"You're distracting me," she complained.

"What?" He brought himself back from wherever his mind had gone. "How?"

"You're too quiet."

He smiled slightly. "Too quiet?"

"It's not like you. You've always got some theory or other, and you usually persist in telling it to me. In detail."

"Maybe I was just thinking that I'd get the barbecue out. Do some steaks. Maybe break out the Chateau Neuf I've got hidden under the floorboards."

"I doubt that."

"That I've got wine under the floor?"

"Well, yes. But more that it was what you were thinking about."

"Aren't you hungry?" He looked meaningfully at her watch. "You do know what time it is, don't you?"

She did, having glanced at it herself not two minutes before, and it was later than she'd imagined. Still, she didn't want to agree with him too often. "A bit early for food, though."

"Not really. When I'm here I either tend to eat a lot earlier than in the city, or really late. Different way of life, I guess. A quieter rhythm."

"Yet here we are investigating a murder."

He gazed at her a moment, then said, "There's a place in England, on the border with Scotland, where there's a Roman Fort."

She shot him a glare for the apparent non-sequitur. "What?"

"Hear me out."

"Fine. Fine. Whatever."

He chuckled, then went on, "Anyway, this fort housed hundreds of soldiers, over many years. And soldiers have to be paid, so there was the pay house. And in that pay house there was a stone wall where these soldiers would reach across for their salary. Which is from the Latin word for 'salt' ... but we won't go into that right now," he added quickly, sensing she was about to say something sharp and possibly physically wounding. "But this stone wall is worn away to the depth of several inches from the arms of thousands of Roman soldiers collecting their money."

Interested despite herself, Kate nevertheless said, "And your rambling point is?"

"People are people, and always have been. They leave their mark on life, and unfortunately have been taking it from others for as long as we've been called human."

She understood. Oh, he may have couched it in literary terms, something he occasionally found it impossible not to do, but he was right. It didn't matter how pretty a place was, how rich or how isolated, put more than one person in it and the likelihood is that someone, somewhere, was going to end up dead. "So that's what you were thinking about?" she asked.

"Not really," he admitted. "I had considered a barbecue, but more it was about Althea."

"You know you're not really responsible for her, don't you?"

"I didn't kill her, no." He smiled but shook his head. "But Kate, that's what makes you so good at your job. You feel that responsibility all the time, and it stops you leaping to the easy conclusions."

"Sometimes they are easy," she argued. "But I like to get it right."

"That's why people love Nikki Heat." He often spoke about his creation as if she was real, and maybe to him she was. She'd certainly caused a lot of problems in her short but eventful life.

"Unfortunately."

He didn't tell her. Not yet. Not what he'd planned for Nikki. The end of the road. No more books. Finito for Detective Heat.

Possibly.

Rather than bare his soul he said, "I was just thinking about what she must have gone through. Whether she knew what was happening. If she was scared. In pain."

Kate sighed. "I wish I could tell you she didn't know a thing, but I can't. You know that."

He half-turned in his seat so he could look at her squarely, seeing the strength in her jaw, the delicacy of her cheekbones. "I've written it, more times than I can say, imagining what the victims think, what they feel ..."

"So do I, Castle."

Her quiet words stopped him, made him look at her hands on the steering wheel, the knuckles pale in the sunlight. "I suppose you do. The difference between a good cop and a great cop."

Her lips lifted. "Are you complimenting me?"

"Just telling it how it is."

"You'd better be careful. All this praise might turn my head." Except she'd always known that _Heat Wave_ was exactly that – high praise from Richard Castle. "So probably better we change the subject." She glanced at him. "What does your crime-writing brain think happened?"

"My theory?"

Anything to stop them talking about feelings. "Just this once."

He smiled. "Okay." He pondered for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly, lips pursed. "Althea Banks," he started. "Coming out of a bad marriage, trying to change her life, her career. She comes to the Hamptons for a break, maybe looking for love. Someone spots her resemblance to Carly Mackintosh. Like Buckman said, the story isn't exactly forgotten. Maybe he tells her, plans something, maybe even attempting to shake Eric Mackintosh down. But she's basically honest, and balks at the last minute. He slaps her, she falls and hits her head. He goes down onto his knees, tries to wake her up, but there's blood on his fingers. She's dead. He doesn't know what to do, can't exactly call the police, so he lets panic decide, and he dumps her into the ocean, hoping the currents will take her out to sea, just like it did Carly."

Kate didn't respond for a moment. Then ... "You're still convinced this has something to do with Carly Mackintosh."

"Don't you? The dress, the watch ... If this is a coincidence I'm going to give up poker."

She turned the car down the road towards the beach house. "What about the benzodiazepine?"

"Hey, I never said it was flawless. And maybe he always planned she was going to die."

"You do realise you've just contradicted yourself," she pointed out as she pulled the car to a stop.

"It's just a theory." Rick went to get out, but her hand on his arm stopped him.

She spoke quietly. "Have you been burgled again?"

"What?"

Kate nodded towards the house, where the front door was standing wide. "That. Or did you just forget to close it?"

His jaw dropped open. "You saw me lock up. Do you really think I want to have to go and report another burglary to Buckman?"

"Stay here."

"What?" Then he saw her draw her gun. "No, Kate."

"Stay." She slid from the car, running fast and low to the wall before slipping into the darkness of the hall.

_Damn it_, Rick thought to himself as he got out himself, watching the doorway. _She does this all the time. And I stay in the car. Mostly. Out of harm's way. Except she carries a gun and is ready to deal with the bad guys every second of the day. And they shoot back._

_I know Ryan and Esposito do it too, but it's not the same. Not like Kate. Not like my –_

"Castle."

He turned on his heel and ran inside, not sure what he was going to find, whether it was Kate facing down three gunmen or his home stripped back to the boards. As he went full pelt through the living area towards the open French windows, what he didn't expect was …

"Mother?"


	9. Chapter 9

A.N.: Second chapter of the weekend, just for the 4th July! Enjoy ...

* * *

Martha Rodgers smiled up at him from the lounger she'd set up on the patio. "Richard, darling. I got Kate's message but I didn't think I'd get quite this reception."

"I only said I wanted to talk to you, Martha," Kate pointed out, putting her gun back into its holster. "A phone call would have done."

"Yes, well, we've got a couple of unexpected days off, so I thought I'd come in person." She stood up, glass in hand. "Mojito, anyone?"

Rick glared at her. "Is that my booze?"

"Do you think I carry rum around with me?" Martha asked, one eyebrow arched.

"Sometimes, Mother, I'm not at all sure." He watched her cross to the small wet bar in the corner of the patio. "And what days off? I thought you were knee deep in summer stock."

Martha tossed her head back and laughed. "A little matter of a burst pipe at the theatre. The stage is ankle deep itself in water."

"Are you sure you didn't do it?" Rick asked, his eyes slightly narrowed. "Remember that time you tried to fix the hot water heater in those digs when you were on tour with _A Chorus Line_?"

"That wasn't my fault." She poured herself a fresh glass, finishing the jug. "Kiddo, just enjoy."

"Hmmn." He glanced at Kate, then looked back at his mother. "Well, I suppose you're here now. And you might as well tell us about Carly Mackintosh."

"Carly ..." Martha's good humour dimmed a little. "She was a nice woman. Sat on a lot of committees. Gave money to various charities." She didn't seem inclined to say anything more.

"Well, we've had the press release," Kate said, leaning back against the railing. "Now how about the truth?"

Rick expected Martha to at least complain, but was surprised when she merely sighed and went to sit down again. "Mother?"

"Kate's right," she admitted. "Carly wasn't perfect. In fact, she was very unhappy. And she did what unhappy women do the world over."

"She had an affair," Kate supplied.

"Yes. More than one." Martha sipped her drink, adding, "I can't say she hated William. She didn't. But I don't think she was in love with him anymore. If she ever was." She smoothed her jade green dress, her bracelets jangling slightly. "Not that he loved her either."

"Then why did they get married?" Rick wanted to know.

"Her father. Something of a martinet, from all accounts. Carly wanted to be an actress – that's how we got talking the first time – but he told her, in no uncertain terms, that wasn't on the cards, and instead he arranged for her to meet William Mackintosh. Within six months they were married, and a year later Eric came along."

"I sort of got the impression you didn't know her well enough to get all this," Rick said, lowering himself into a wicker chair. "Unless it was common knowledge."

"It wasn't. But Carly liked to talk. Especially after she'd had a drink or two, and she often did. Even then she was careful who she talked with, but she seemed to think I was safe."

Kate wiped the perspiration from her top lip. "So you weren't surprised when it was suggested she had one too many and went overboard."

Martha didn't answer.

"You think William killed her."

Both women stared at Rick.

"Where did that come from?" Kate asked.

"Not sure," Rick admitted. "But it would fit. Carly's unhappy. She has lovers. William finds out and confronts her after the party. They argue and he kills her, putting her over the side hoping the current is going to take her away."

"Good luck trying to prove that," Martha said, raising her glass. "Since he's been in his grave for ten years."

"Anyway, that's what you suggested for Althea," Kate pointed out.

"Doesn't mean it's not valid."

"Althea?" Martha was confused.

"The dead girl on the beach."

Martha looked from Kate to Rick and back again. "What dead girl?"

Rick sighed, rubbing his chin. "Well ..." It only took a minute, but Martha's face fell as he spoke.

"Oh, the poor thing," she said as he finished. "And you're going to find out who did it." She glanced at Kate.

"Hey, don't look at me. I'm just observing," the younger woman said, holding up her hands.

"Kiddo, don't lie to me. It doesn't suit you."

Rick had to chuckle. "Let's just say we're ... seeing what we can find out."

"Be careful, darling. Please. I'd hate to have to tell Alexis something happened to you."

"Hey, me too." He smiled at her.

Kate felt something stir inside, somewhere near her heart. No matter what she said out loud about him being shallow, about having the attention span of a twelve year old on a sugar rush, he loved his family with a passion, and would do anything for them. And there was always something unconditional about the way Martha treated her son, whether it was keeping him from getting too big headed or worrying about his safety. Something Kate missed when she woke in the middle of the night.

Still, it didn't stop Martha's innate curiosity. "And she looked like Carly?"

"Down to the hair colour," Rick agreed.

Kate exhaled heavily through her nose. "And the dress."

"Ah, the Fabrigazi." Martha nodded.

"Which is a sticking point," Kate went on. "I don't see how it got from Carly to Althea, unless it was a copy."

"Unlikely," Martha said. "It was made for her, designed to her specifications. Even the fabric was hand-painted. Carly loved it. She wore it several times in an town where rich women were never seen in the same outfit twice."

"So you remember it well?" Rick asked.

"Darling, it was beautiful." As if that was enough.

"So it was definitely this one?" Rick slipped a photo out of his pocket, handing it to her.

"Where did you get that?" Kate demanded, outraged. "Did you take that off Buckman's desk?"

"He wasn't using it."

"Castle ..."

"I'll give it back. When we've finished," Rick assured her.

Martha was studying the picture. "Is this her?"

Kate's gaze promised this wasn't the end of the matter, but said, "Yes. That's Althea Banks."

"The poor girl," Martha said softly, shaking her head. The photo was one of those taken before the body had been moved from the beach, and showed the dress more or less in its entirety. Someone had closed Althea's eyes, though, and moved the hair from her face. "No wonder you thought it was Carly. The resemblance ..."

"Martha. The dress?" Kate prompted.

"Yes. Yes, of course." Martha took a deep breath then looked up, handing the photo to Kate. "It certainly looks the same. I mean, it was thirty years ago, so I can't be sure, but it had a complicated design, a sort of twist at the back waist. Have you got a picture of the back?"

"No." Kate bit her lip slightly in thought. "Maybe the ME can help. We can talk to him tomorrow."

"But it doesn't explain how it got from Carly to Althea," Rick said.

"Unless it's a copy, like I said."

"How would they know what it looked like?"

"It was photographed enough. Maybe even for the material."

"But not something you'd be able to do in a hurry."

"You mean if this was all done on the spur of the moment."

"Exactly. Which suggests this was very carefully planned."

"And that maybe Althea was always a part of it."

"Could be." Rick shook his head. "More questions than answers."

Martha was sitting watching them throw words backwards and forwards, a smile on her lips as she took another mouthful of Mojito. "You know, there is always the possibility that Carly didn't actually die," she tossed into the pot.

They both turned to face her.

"You mean she survived?" Kate asked.

"Maybe."

"But she'd have turned up."

"Maybe," Martha said again. "If she wanted to be found."

Rick shook his head. "But she wouldn't leave Eric. All the reports at the time said how devoted she was to him."

Martha shrugged elegantly. "I don't know about that."

Kate narrowed her eyes, glancing at Rick then back at his mother. "Martha, is there something you're not telling us?"

She swirled the drink in her glass, debating how much to say. "Damn it, it's thirty years ago." She sat up straighter. "Carly wasn't perfect. She drank more than she should, she was unfaithful, and in all honesty she ... well, she didn't love her son perhaps as much as she should."

"He was only eight years old," Rick complained, but only gently.

"And he was William's son, in more ways than one." Martha shook her head. "I always wondered if she talked to me because I had a son the same age, but she told me, more than once, that she worried about him. The way he was, things he said sometimes."

"Boys can be pretty horrible," Kate said.

"I know. But ..." Martha stopped. "Look, I don't know. It never even occurred to me that she might still be alive. It was just something to say. Besides, the money was hers. I doubt she'd leave that behind."

"Do you think she might have killed herself? If she was that miserable, she might think it was the only way out."

"I ... don't know." Even in her darkest days, when things seemed so black that the only light coming towards her was yet another train, she'd never once considered ending everything.

Rick realised she was getting uncomfortable, and stood up. "I'm hungry."

"You always are." Kate knew he was changing the subject, had a good idea why, and for once let him get away with it. "Maybe you should consider going on a diet."

He looked down at himself in simulated shock. "And lose these love handles?" He shook his head. "My little black book would be appalled." Grinning he stepped off the patio into the sand, turning left.

"Where are you going?" Kate asked.

"Not far." He reached over and twitched a tarp off a gas barbecue. "Voila."

"And the burglars didn't take it?"

"Nah. It's cemented in." He stamped on the solid concrete base she hadn't noticed, then flicked the ignition switch. "And ready for action. Just like its owner." His eyebrows were working overtime as he pulled the cover down.

She rolled her eyes at him.

Martha laughed and got to her feet. "I'm going to mix another jug. Anyone want to join me?"

"I'd be careful before you say yes," Rick said. "Her concoctions have been known to take the varnish off tables. And embed lime shards in the walls."

"Shh," Martha said, tossing a lime section at him as she organised the ingredients.

He grinned and sauntered towards the kitchen.

"And what burglars?" she called out, but he ignored her. She looked at Kate. "What burglars?"

"Something of a crime wave, apparently," Kate said, waiting until Rick was out of earshot, then asked, keeping her voice low nevertheless, "Martha, why did he do it?"

"Do what, kiddo?" Martha was bruising the mint leaves in a clean jug with sugar syrup and lime juice.

"Bring Gina out here. Parade her in front of … of us, like some sort of trophy." _In front of me_, she wanted to say.

Martha stopped what she was doing and sighed. "He was angry, Kate. Oh, he wants to believe that he was being altruistic, that he was giving you and Tom space, but it was more anger than anything. Remember, he hasn't really grown up." She shook her head. "It was my fault. We didn't exactly have a stable home life, and with me being an actress, a single mother, he didn't have a male role model to aspire to."

"Do you honestly think he'd have been any different if he'd known his father?"

Martha laughed. "Probably not. I'm just glad Alexis seems to be so much more sensible than either of us." She added rum with a liberal hand, then asked, "Why don't you two talk to each other?"

"Who, me and Alexis?"

"Don't be obtuse, darling, it's not attractive."

Kate shook her head, chuckling under her breath. "Martha, what we do, what we have … I don't know what it is. _If_ it is. It's just easier to ignore it right now."

"And you think that's a good idea?"

"No. Not particularly. But to tell the truth I'm all out of good ideas right now."

Martha smiled, her personality warmer than the evening. "Then have a drink."

"You know, I don't mind if I do." Kate stood up and joined the older woman.

"Did you know a Mojito is based on a drink made for Sir Francis Drake?" Martha said, topping up the mix in the jug with sparkling water. "It was called 'El Draque'."

Kate chuckled. "So you're where Castle gets it from? This ability he has to absorb useless bits of information?"

"I'm an actress. I have to have a good memory, and … yes, perhaps Richard did get that from me." She poured them both a full glass.

"And his father?" Kate had always wanted to ask, but couldn't yet blame alcohol for loosening her tongue. "Do you really not know who he is?"

Martha looked vulnerable and didn't answer for a moment, then the mask of the actress was back in place. "That's for me to know and Richard never to find out."

"Ernest Hemingway," Rick said, carrying a platter of meat out through the windows.

"No, I'm pretty sure I didn't sleep with him," Martha demurred.

"I meant that the Mojito was Hemingway's favourite drink."

Kate narrowed her eyes. "How long were you listening?"

"Who, me?" Rick asked, innocence radiating from him as he carried the plate to the barbecue.

"Yes, you."

"I don't know. I wasn't listening." He lifted the lid and smoke billowed for a moment. He coughed. "See, that's what you need," he managed to say, the words catching in his suddenly dry throat. "My secret recipe for the wood chips." He waved the smoke away from his eyes.

"Here," Kate said, holding out her Mojito. "I think your need is greater than mine."

"Thanks." He took a mouthful, then glanced at his mother. "A little less rum next time," he advised.

"Really?" Martha looked surprised, then sipped her own drink. "No. More lime juice." She raised her glass in salute and walked back into the house.

"Sorry for this," Rick said, choosing a steak from the stack.

"For what?"

"My mother being here."

"Why, what do you think she might be interrupting?"

"Us. You and me."

"Us." She poured a fresh drink. "I'm here to help, Rick. Nothing else."

She wasn't looking at him, which for once he was very glad about, because he was sure the flash of internal pain showed on his face. Still, by the time she looked up again, he was back in control, the usual smug expression fixed in place.

"Hope you're hungry," he said, holding up a slab of meat.

"Not that much."

"Kate, you don't eat enough." He dropped the steak onto the grill, hearing it immediately start to sizzle.

"Just because I don't stuff my face …"

He grinned. "You have no idea what you're missing." He went back to the food.

Kate watched him for a minute, then said, "I can understand his attitude, you know."

Rick flipped the steak expertly to brown the other side, sealing in the juices. "Who?"

"Buckman." Kate leaned against the railing, feeling a drop of cold liquid condensation transfer itself from her glass to the back of her hand. "I'd feel the same way if someone came into the precinct trying to tell me how to do my job."

"Like me, you mean?"

"Did I mention names?"

"But that's how you felt. Wasn't it?"

"Castle, stop angling for compliments."

"I wasn't. It was more … an apology."

"Well, it was almost worth it. Having you hanging around. You've been … occasionally helpful."

Rick smiled. "Only occasionally?"

"Once in a while."

He saluted with the tongs. "Glad to be of service."

"How long 'til dinner?"

"About fifteen minutes. Why?"

"I need to make a phone call."

"You can use the one in my bedroom if you want some privacy."

She shook her head, holding up her cell. "No, I'm good." She stepped off the patio and wandered down the sand towards the sea edge, speed-dialling as she went.

At the water she stopped, letting it lap her toes as she closed her eyes, the breeze cooling her hot skin. A smile played across her lips as she felt the tension in her shoulders melting away.

Castle was right – this was a beautiful place, and even if they never got to the bottom of the death of Althea Banks the few days she was going to spend here was likely to do her good.

As long as they didn't argue again. She knew she'd overreacted to Castle's enquiry about Tom, but then he shouldn't have asked. The trouble was he always let his curiosity have its head, his main fault as far as she was concerned. He said it was an occupational hazard, but she had the distinct feeling the curiosity had come first, simply fuelling the need he had to poke about in things. Still, she'd leaped down his throat, and she knew it wasn't just anger that made her do it.

The phone in her hand chattered, and a male voice said, "Homicide."

She opened her eyes. "Esposito."

"Beckett. Having a good time?"

She could imagine him leaning back in his chair, jacket off, smiling. "I'm not on vacation. And take your foot off the desk." There was a faint thud, and she grinned.

"How do you do that?"

"Experience."

"Damn."

"Actually, I'm surprised you're still there," she went on. "While the cat's away …"

"And you still rang."

"Just checking in."

"You've been gone a day."

"Anything interesting been happening?"

Esposito was probably even then putting his foot back onto the desk. "We caught a murder in an apartment block on 43rd, but the wife confessed. She'd got fed up with her husband sitting back and complaining about the heat all the time, and brained him with a skillet. Justifiable homicide, at least according to her. Ryan's finishing processing."

Kate laughed lightly. "Sounds like a normal day."

"It was." He paused momentarily, then went on, "What do you need?"

"Who said I needed anything?"

"I did."

She grinned, even though he couldn't see. "Well, there is something you might be able to help with. A couple of somethings, actually."

His chuckle came across clearly. "So what else is new?"


	10. Chapter 10

It was funny how things could change in the space of just a few hours. A couple of days ago Rick was feeling lonely, wondering whether to head back to New York immediately he had the book done, rather than wait until the beginning of September as originally planned, and now ... now he had Kate one side of him, Martha the other. Not actually next to him, of course, but the rooms either side. He felt like the filling in an odd sandwich. All he needed was for Alexis to show up and he'd be complete again.

She'd threatened in the call he had just before everyone headed for their beds, wanting to know the news, what was happening, if he'd told Kate yet. He'd said he didn't know what she was talking about, and anyway she was too young to be thinking of things like that and didn't she have an essay or six to write? Alexis had grumbled, telling him in no uncertain terms that he was a coward, and why he didn't use this obvious opportunity she didn't know. At that point she'd said she thought she should take the next train, and he'd put his foot down.

She hadn't meant it, of course. She was having far too much fun pretending to be a college kid, but if he'd asked, if he'd even suggested he needed her, he knew she'd be knocking down the door.

And now here he was, the clock saying it was some time after 3.00 am, and he'd barely closed his eyes. Things kept going round and round his head, snippets of conversation from the evening before, images that seemed burned into his brain, and until he got them out he knew he wasn't going to be able to rest.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, stretching slightly. Stepping into a pair of black jogging bottoms he padded out into the hall, listening intently.

Martha, of course, was sleeping soundly, thanks to Mr Mojito, while Kate seemed to be snoring lightly.

He smiled – something to annoy her with perhaps. No, that wouldn't be fair. And more than one of his nocturnal companions had accused him of doing the same occasionally. Snoring, that is.

He walked down the wooden staircase, his bare toes curling around the treads, and into the living area. The heat of the day was still trapped inside, so without putting on the lights he opened the French windows and let the sea breeze in. Out on the water he could see the riding lights of half a dozen yachts and smaller boats, but other than that he could well believe he was the only person awake in the entire galaxy.

He chuckled. His fanciful nature sometimes got the best of him, although he wasn't going to grudge it the occasional foray into romanticism. It had given him all the money he needed, fuelling a lifestyle that was both fun and fulfilling, and if Derrick Storm and Nikki Heat had to sit cheek by jowl with a tendency to get a little starry-eyed once in a while, so be it.

Turning around he switched on the reading lamp by the table, letting its warm glow bathe the room. He glanced at the new computer, but that wasn't really what he needed. Not for the first time did he wish he had his own version of the murder board here at the beach, the interactive screen where he laid out the plots to his books. Still, if Mohammed wasn't going to come to the mountain, there was a very nice expanse of wall here, just ripe for putting notes on ...

* * *

Light filtered through the curtains and hit Kate straight in the face. She grimaced, turning away, then opened her eyes. Blinking hard a couple of times, she rolled enough so she could squint at the clock on the bedside table. The red numerals announced it was 7:57, apparently in the morning. She lay back on her pillow and closed her eyes again, but it wasn't going to work. Even when she had nothing else to do, when she was taking one of her rare days off with the only thing planned being slouching around the apartment (okay, don't go there – the new one still wasn't ready to move into) … even then she couldn't lie in bed beyond 8.00 am.

Pushing the sheet off her body she sat up, running her hands through her hair. Maybe she should cut it short again, especially now it was hot, although it was easy to stick up in a pony tail. Tom had said he liked it longer too, but then she knew he'd have said he liked it if she'd decided to shave it all off and get her scalp tattooed. She sighed. Sometimes she wondered if he'd been too nice, and maybe that was half the problem.

The other half was the other side of the wall.

Listening to see if there was any other movement in the house, she got to her feet, stretching her hands towards the ceiling. Maybe she should go for a run on the beach before breakfast, get the old heart pumping, blood flowing to the extremities, burn off some of the calories from the meal Castle had cooked the night before.

Not that it was in any way bad. In fact, he was a pretty decent cook, and the potato salad she'd insisted on making as her contribution to the feast had gone down well with the steaks.

Yes, that was a good idea. Make breakfast. Something light, maybe fruit and cornflakes, or possibly pancakes if she could find a good pan, just as a thank you.

The house was silent as she walked out of the bedroom and headed downstairs, only the sound of the sea birds outside breaking into her thoughts. A cool breeze met her halfway down, indicating a window was open, then as she stepped into the main living area she realised the doors were open onto the patio, and the reason why was right in front of her.

Rick was asleep in the barcalounger, his hands in his lap, head back. As she watched he snuffled briefly, then turned away from her. He appeared to only be wearing a pair of pants, which afforded her an uninterrupted view of his chest. Maybe not the most muscular she'd ever seen, but not too shabby, either. She'd teased him about dropping a few pounds, but in truth he didn't really need to. He might never be Mr Universe, nor have the chiselled abs of Ryan Reynolds, but there was something about him that just screamed male. Perhaps it was the five o'clock shadow darkening his chin, but he was a fair specimen of masculinity.

Her eyes were drawn to the scattering of chest hairs, thickening slightly as it meandered down his belly into the somewhat disreputable jogging pants, and for one brief and shining moment she considered loosening the drawstring …

"Like what you see?"

She looked into his face guiltily, and realised his eyes were open. Embarrassment burned like the fires of hell in her cheeks, and she quickly turned away, her mortified gaze falling gratefully by the pieces of paper stuck all over the wall. "Redecorating?" she asked, her voice more a squeak than her normal tempered tone.

She heard the lounger creak, presumably as Castle got to his feet, then a peculiar warmth permeated through the extra large t-shirt she'd worn to bed. He was standing close. Very close.

"My murder wall," he said, his breath tickling her ear. "I was trying to work things out."

"So I see." She concentrated on the notes, willing the blush to recede (either that or the floor to open up and swallow her). She recognised one as the photo Castle had filched from Buckman's desk, others as the print outs of the articles Esposito had done for her. Lines were drawn in red pen connecting them, solid in some cases, dotted in others. _Dress?_ was written in big letters on a post-it, and another saying _Left handed?_ Yet more were scrawls but she didn't move forward to try and decipher them. Instead she said, "It's going to be a mess when you take them down."

"The room needs painting anyway," he murmured, sending shivers down her spine.

"Did you get very far?" Mundane question.

"Not particularly." Mundane answer.

Anything not to say what they both wanted to admit. Still, it was there, like a huge bubble all around them, cutting them off from the outside world.

Biting her lip Kate turned, finding him as expected barely a breath away. So close, in fact, all she had to do was lean forward and she'd be pressed against his naked chest.

"Castle …" she began, then stopped.

"Yes, Kate?" He seemed to be studying her, his eyes roaming across her face as if he'd never seen her before. Any second his hand was going to raise and trace those very same contours, before settling in the nape of her neck and pulling her up to his lips …

"Good morning, you two." Martha clattered down the stairs in a black and white print wrap. "And isn't it a beautiful …" Her voice faded away before she asked, in hopeful tone, "Am I interrupting?"

"Yes," Rick said.

"No," Kate countered, cutting him off.

They gazed at each other for another five seconds, then Rick broke the silence. "Apparently not," he said, an odd expression of sadness that was gone a moment later.

Kate frowned. It was automatic, saying 'no' like that, born of months trying to deflect Ryan and Esposito, even Lanie, but this time it hurt. She felt like she'd missed something, an opportunity that might never come again, and it pained her. "I was going to make breakfast," she said, stepping back and bursting the bubble. "But since you're up, I'll go and get dressed." Two paces away then she turned, escaping up the stairs.

Rick didn't move, just said, "Your timing, Mother, is as always impeccable."

"I'm sorry, darling." Martha was truly contrite. "I didn't know."

He took a deep breath, slowly releasing it through his nostrils. Then he smiled. "No. I guess you didn't." He turned, busied himself with tidying up, picking up a beer bottle he'd indulged in the night before. "Besides, nothing would have happened."

"Why you don't kiss her and be done with it, I don't know," Martha said, her hands moving expressively.

"Maybe she doesn't want me to. Have you considered that?"

For a long moment Martha's inner demons fought amongst themselves, arguing whether to tell him of the conversation she and Kate had had, but the angel won. Not that he'd ever listened to her in the past over his love life, otherwise he'd never have married Meredith. Although for all the world she wouldn't do without her grand-daughter, so what did she know? "Maybe you're right," she admitted. "Kiddo, you do what you want. You always do." She couldn't resist adding, though, "Just don't come crying to me when you realise you've let the love of your life escape your clutches."

"You make me sound like a monster," he joked.

"Well, you're sending me grey." She saw his eyes move up to her vibrant red hair, just knowing what was going through his mind. "And don't you say a word."

"Me?" He couldn't help his lips twitching though.

"You." She looked down her nose at him. "Just wait until you get to my age. You're going to need all the help you can get."

He ran a hand through his own, somewhat untidy locks, and nodded ruefully. "Maybe I'll dye mine that colour too. What number did you say it was?" He ducked as she threw a cushion at his head.

* * *

The Maidstone Club looked like a relic from the last century, pretty much untouched since then. It wouldn't have looked out of place in New England, or old England, for that matter, since the club had been named after the town in Kent. It gave the appearance of being filled with leather armchairs and old retainers carrying silver salvers containing visiting cards to even older members pickled in whisky and cigar smoke.

This was only on the surface, though, as even from this distance Kate could see the grounds were well-maintained, and the slightest glimpse of a satellite dish on the roof attested to all the mod cons.

Lyle Buckman was waiting for her, his crisp white shirt already showing signs of stress. "You found it then," he said as she climbed from the car.

"Castle gave me directions," she admitted. She locked the car door, then wondered why. Amongst the Ferraris, BMWs and high end Daimlers and Rolls Royces, her standard issue vehicle was the least likely to get broken into.

"Well, it's coming up 10.45," Buckman went on, ignoring the writer even in absentia. "Time to go talk to Eric Mackintosh."

"Good," Kate said firmly. After her conversations with Castle the day before, she'd come more and more to agree with him that Mackintosh had something to do with it, whatever _it_ was.

They started up the path towards the main entrance on the far side of the building from the ocean, the fine, pink gravel crunching underfoot, but as they walked Buckman looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "Remember, I'm doing all the talking. You're just in the background. Nothing else."

"I do understand."

"Just so long as you do."

"Detective, this is your jurisdiction. I'm observing, that's all."

He made a sound that could have been a chuckle under his breath. "You don't mind if I reserve judgement on that, do you?"

She smiled. "Not at all."

The large, dark green double doors were open, but as they walked inside they were hit by a wall of cold air. As much as the members of the Maidstone Club might love the Hamptons, they loved their creature comforts even more, and the summer heat was kept at bay with a vengeance.

"Sir? Madam?" A man in black pants and a dark green polo-shirt, the same colour as the doors, stepped forward out of the gloom. "Can I help you?"

"I've come to see Eric Mackintosh," Buckman said.

"Is he expecting you, sir?"

"He is."

"Please wait here a moment." The man melted into the shadows, leaving the pair of them standing in the atrium, the sound of a fountain coming from somewhere, the scent of orange blossom drifting by.

"You didn't identify yourself," Kate said quietly, feeling like she was in a library, or possibly a tomb.

"No point. Not yet. They don't need to know why we're here. No reason to get the rumour mill going earlier than it needs."

Kate nodded. Not her way of working, but valid nonetheless. Something to tell Montgomery when she got back, just to prove she'd been observing and learning like she was supposed to be.

Her eyes, now used to the relative gloom inside, took in their surroundings. The hall was wide, and two stories high, with a black and white marble floor in a chequerboard pattern. A mezzanine crammed with pot plants ran around the walls, while a staircase with carved wooden balusters meandered upwards, clothed in green and gold carpet.

"How the other half live," she murmured.

"You don't come from money?" Buckman asked, obviously having heard.

"Me?" She turned in surprise. "No."

"I thought, with you being friends with Castle …"

Kate allowed herself to smile. "Castle is an enigma. He made his millions writing books, otherwise I have it on good authority he'd have ended up teaching second grade somewhere."

Buckman's nose curled. "But writing books?"

She shrugged. "He's successful."

"And you two are …" He didn't finish the sentence.

"No, we're not."

He raised one eyebrow. "Really? Only coming to his rescue like you did –"

"I didn't. My Captain arranged this."

"Oh. Right."

She could tell from the look on his face that he didn't believe her, but she was too hot to try and explain. Besides, it was personal.

Her cellphone trilled just as another uniformed flunkey walked past them, newspapers draped over his arm. He gave her a stern look before nodding towards a sign on the reception desk that said, in big black letters FOR THE COMFORT OF MEMBERS, PLEASE TURN OFF ALL CELLPHONES IN THE CLUBHOUSE. She lifted her top enough so that he could see the badge in her waistband as she thumbed answer, and he walked on stiffly.

Trying not to smile she said, "Beckett."

"Hot enough for you?" Ryan asked, his voice tinny and far away.

"The next person who asks me that is going to get shot."

"Good job I'm out of range."

"What do you have for me?"

"We've just been to see Althea Banks' BFF, Jo Wyler. Seems like Althea was what she appeared to be, a nearly thirty woman looking to turn her life around. Both her parents died ten months ago in a car crash, but Ms Wyler thought Althea was finally getting over it. Then she started to clear out their house."

Kate could see Ryan in her mind's eye, his normally jovial expression serious as he reported. "What happened?" she asked.

"Jo isn't sure. Althea didn't talk much about her family, but Jo got the impression she'd found something amongst her mother's effects."

"Any idea what?"

"Nope. Esposito and I took a look around her room, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. Jo said Althea had been looking forward to the vacation, even though it was going to tap her out."

Buckman was watching her, hearing her side of the conversation and probably trying to fill in the rest.

"Anything else?"

"Not really. Except she confirmed that the photo you asked about was definitely her family, and was usually by Althea's bed. Oh, and she was right handed."

"Great, thanks."

"We're heading to Fabrigazi's right now," Ryan went on. "If we get there with Esposito's driving."

There was muttering in the background of the call which Kate took to be Ryan's partner telling him exactly what he thought of that kind of comment. "Fine. Let me know as soon as you have anything."

"You got it, boss."

Kate hung up and slipped her phone back into her pocket just as the man who'd originally greeted them rematerialised.

"Anything I should know?" Buckman murmured.

"Probably not." She tossed him a bone. "But I'll tell you later."

The man in the green polo shirt smiled at them. "Mr Mackintosh is still playing tennis at the moment, but he has asked that you wait for him on the terrace. He won't be long." He held out a hand to indicate the way. "Can I get you anything while you wait?"

* * *

**A.N.: **The Maidstone Club is real, but nothing else other than the name is. Total disclaimer!


	11. Chapter 11

Enzo Fabrigazi lived in the penthouse of a tall building overlooking Central Park West, where even the atrium reeked of wealth. They'd announced themselves and the doorman had made them wait while he buzzed up, but it was less than a minute before he waved them through.

"You'd never think you could make this kind of money out of designing clothes, would you?" Ryan asked as they waited for the elevator.

His partner looked him up and down. "Not yours, anyway," Esposito said.

Ryan wasn't annoyed, but he said in defence, "Jenny bought this for me." He glanced down at the teal blue shirt. "It goes with my eyes."

"She said that, did she?"

"Yes."

"Right." Esposito clucked under his breath.

"And how are you and Lanie getting on?" Ryan teased as the elevator doors opened.

As they stepped inside, Esposito held up a hand, one finger raised. "You do not tell anyone." He stabbed at the button marked 'P'.

Ryan grinned, his Irish charm on full. "Not said a word," he promised.

The truth was, they were partners, and more than that they were friends, so both knew exactly what was going on in the other's private life.

"Especially to Castle," Esposito went on.

Ryan was surprised. "Not Beckett?"

Esposito suddenly found his shoes fascinating. "She ... uh ..."

"She guessed?" Ryan laughed out loud. "Bro, she is going to make your life hell when she gets back!"

"I'm thinking she's going to be adult about it. And it's nothing to do with her."

"Lanie's her best friend. And you seriously think she's not going to blab to Castle?"

"I'm hoping she's more professional than that."

Ryan clapped his partner on the back, almost making him stagger. "Hope on," he advised, a wide grin splitting his features. "Hope on."

The elevator doors opened on what appeared to be a lifesize Chinese doll, but when she spoke they realised she had to be real.

"Detectives," she said, bowing slightly. "This way." She turned, her silk kimono swishing on the oak floor. She led them across the fashionably sparse apartment and out through huge folding doors onto a wide flat roof, half-filled with an impossibly blue pool. "Mr Fabrigazi will see you now," she whispered, her perfectly made up face barely moving.

"Thanks," Esposito said, dropping his head.

She bowed again and glided away, and both partners watched her until she was out of sight, her movements so tiny it looked as if she was on rollers rather than feet, then they both turned back to the pool.

Enzo Fabrigazi was lying on a lounger under a sunshade, his shock of full white hair in contrast to his tanned complexion. He wore a pair of loose black swimming shorts and an unbuttoned fiery red short-sleeved shirt, but they could see the man beneath was showing his age, his skin loose in places on a thin frame, despite the muscles that lined his arms like whipcords.

"Gentlemen. Please, sit." He indicated two chairs under similar sunshades, and smiled. "Did Yuki offer you refreshment?"

"No," Esposito said as they sat down, "but we're fine."

Enzo tutted. "I am still training her. She is coming along, but the niceties ..." He shook his head. "Still, is no matter. So ... what can Enzo do for the great New York police department?" His deep voice still rang with his Italian heritage.

Esposito pulled a picture from the file he was carrying. "Do you recognise this dress?" It was a copy of the photo Rick had stolen from Buckman's desk and Kate had forwarded by simply photographing it herself on her phone and sending it on. The process had left it a little grainy but there was no doubt as to the content.

The old man took it, studied it for maybe ten seconds, then said, "Ah. Carly."

He didn't seem inclined to say any more, so Esposito prompted, "It's one of yours?"

Enzo nodded, still staring. "My creation. For a woman who could wear it."

"Then it's not a copy?"

The old man jerked slightly, looking up. "My dress? Copied?" He tossed his hand into the air. "You think I don't know my own child?"

Esposito glanced at Ryan, who gave the _No, please, you go ahead, you're doing fine_ look. "Your child?"

"I consider all my creations my children. Fabulous. Daring. Unique." He sighed deeply. "And if you have found this one, then you've found Carly?"

"It's ... ongoing," Ryan put in, not exactly lying.

"Can you tell us a bit about it?" Esposito asked. "If you can remember."

Enzo stood up quickly. "Come," he said, walking swiftly back into the apartment, his back straight and belying his seventy-eight years.

They followed, blinking hard to accustom their eyes before seeing the old man disappear through a corner door. Hurrying forward, they found themselves in a light, airy room, glass on two sides, filled with colour.

"Wow," Ryan muttered, seeing bolt after bolt of cloth lining the other two walls, half a dozen mannequins behind a long table draped in rivers of satin that pooled at their base, while four huge architect's drawing boards were placed at the four points of an imaginary cross.

"Is where I still create," Enzo said. "Not for anyone, but my own amusement." He was at a cupboard, and old press that had doors above and half a dozen shallow drawers underneath. He was rummaging in one of them, then gave a cry of satisfaction as he withdrew a large folder. "Here. Here it is." He carried it to the table and opened it up to lay it flat. "My child," he said.

Esposito stared at the drawing on top. It was the dress, beautifully detailed and drawn, almost a work of art in itself. The body inside it was vague, but the face, created with just a few delicate strokes, was unmistakeably Carly Mackintosh. Moving it to one side, he could see half a dozen preliminary sketches, each with a swatch of cloth attached. He fingered one gently. It felt light, like he was handling spider's webs.

"Is there any more of this?" he asked.

Enzo shook his head. "No. Is hand-printed, personally by me. I did enough for the dress, nothing more. And when we cut it, all that was left were fragments. Like that."

"It sure looks the same," Ryan said, studying it over his partner's shoulder.

"As I say, nobody could copy it," Enzo assured them. "Let alone the Fabrigazi twist."

Esposito looked up. "The what?"

Enzo responded by sliding the folder towards him and sifting through the contents, finally coming up with two photos. They were both of Carly Mackintosh in the dress, looking radiant, standing in that very room, but the second was of her back. "The twist. A trademark, if you will."

They gazed at the photo, noting where the dress appeared to turn on itself before flowing out almost into a slight bustle.

"Difficult to do?" Ryan asked.

Enzo chuckled. "See." He picked up a length of crimson silk, maybe two metres long. "Watch. Learn." He ran it through his hands, getting a feel for it, then did something complicated, hand over hand, not exactly knotting it but making it do something it didn't want to until it seemed to fight back. "There." He held it up, showing the exact same twist as on the photo. "The skill is incorporating it into a dress that is essentially two dimensional." He sighed deeply. "It takes more fabric, is not cost-worthy. But Carly insisted." His eyes softened. "I could never deny her."

"Mr Fabrigazi –" Ryan began, but was interrupted.

"Enzo. Please."

"Were you and Carly ... lovers?"

Enzo laughed. "Thirty years ago I was in my prime." He looked down at himself. "Not as you see me here. But vibrant, energetic, full bodied, like a good Italian red wine. I could have anyone I chose."

"Did you choose Carly Mackintosh?"

"For a while." Enzo sighed again. "Only for a little while."

"Where were you when she disappeared?" Esposito asked, the idea of a jilted lover crossing his mind.

"In Milan." He shook his head. "I often thought, if I had been there, I could have stopped it, but ..."

"Stopped what?"

"Whatever happened."

Esposito and Ryan exchanged another look. They were both aware the older man thought he knew something, but they weren't yet in a position to push for an answer.

"Can we borrow these?" Esposito asked, picking up the photos.

"If I get them back." Enzo pulled himself together. "That was the first time she wore it, during that fitting," he pointed out. "Is my memories."

"I'll make sure."

"Then ... yes."

Esposito tucked them into his file. "Thanks." He turned to leave, but his partner had another question.

"Mr Fabrigazi ... Enzo ... what do you think happened to her?" Ryan asked.

For a long moment the designer didn't answer, then when he did it was with a venom that surprised both detectives. "I do not believe she killed herself, no matter what her husband said. That man ... he should have been investigated. He was a brute." He realised what he'd said and his lips slammed together.

"You think he killed her?"

"I am saying nothing." Enzo held up both hands, palms towards them. "Is a long time ago. Is done."

"Well, thank you very much for your help," Esposito said.

Enzo seemed to relax. "Is no problem. And please, come again. I make you a shirt, yes? Each of you."

Esposito smiled. "Maybe."

The old man clapped his hands loudly, and Yuki appeared, still in her kimono. "See them out," he commanded.

She bowed. "This way," she whispered.

The partners went to follow, but stopped when Enzo spoke again.

"Oh. One last thing you might like to know ..."

* * *

Whoever was at the door wasn't being very patient. He was knocking for the third time when Rick threw it open.

"Okay, okay," Rick said, then stopped in surprise. "Jerry. Hey. I don't recall ordering a cab."

Jerry Reyes let go of the mermaid and grinned. "I know that, Boss, but you might want to come for a drive anyway."

Rick leaned on the door jamb. "Why?"

"I think I've got some news on your stuff."

Rick felt his stomach flip and he straightened up. "My watch?"

Jerry nodded. "And maybe the TV." He rubbed his hands together. "I told you I'd put out a few feelers. Well, one of 'em got back to me."

For a moment Rick considered the pros and cons. Well, only the pros, actually. "Give me two minutes," he said, gesturing to the jogging pants and disreputable t-shirt he was wearing.

"No problem, dude."

He turned to go and change, almost running into Martha.

"Darling, is that a cab?" she asked, smiling over his shoulder at Jerry.

"Ma'am," the driver said, grinning at her.

"Yeah." Rick moved smoothly around her. "He ... I need to get somewhere."

"Where?"

"Somewhere."

Martha rolled her eyes. "You're going to do something you shouldn't, aren't you?"

"I didn't say that."

"Kiddo, this isn't the city. You get yourself arrested, Kate can't bail you out."

"She hasn't done too badly so far." He grinned at her.

"Just be careful."

"I will." He kissed her cheek and went to move by her.

"In which case you can give me a lift back to the train station."

"You're leaving?" His surprise was palpable.

"I just spoke to Chet. He ... wants to see me." Her face had softened.

Rick's grin became gentle. "So you're not moving back home yet? Or are we talking something more permanent here? Marriage, maybe? Do I need to have words with the young man?"

She hit him lightly on the pad of his arm. "You're not getting rid of me that easily."

"Pity."

This time the slap was harder.

Jerry coughed significantly from the doorway and tapped his watch. "Um, boss?"

* * *

"How long does a game of tennis go on for?" Buckman murmured, beginning to get restless.

"Hours, some of them," Kate said, stretching her legs under the cast-iron table.

They were sitting under large umbrellas on the terrace that ran around the side of the Club, overlooking the four courts. Each was occupied, white-clothed figures knocking bright green balls backwards and forwards over the nets.

"Not sure how much more of this I can take." Buckman sipped his coffee, grimacing at the fact that it had gone cold.

Kate was on her third orange juice, and rapidly coming to the opinion that, if Eric Mackintosh didn't finish his game soon, she was going to have to try and find the little girl's room. Either that or shoot the ball.

Her phone trilled, and she checked the display. It was a text from Esposito, with a couple of attachments. She read the blurb then opened the pictures, studying them closely, until Buckman nudged her.

Two men were climbing the steps towards them, one of them barely over five feet with a sweat-shiny bald pate, while the other was tall, a racquet bag in one hand, a white cotton jumper tossed casually over the other shoulder.

"Same time next week?" the first said, looking up.

"Of course."

"And I will beat you one day, Eric. You can't win all the time."

The tall man chuckled. "Keep believing that, Liam."

Liam shook his head and wandered off, waving vaguely over his shoulder.

Buckman stood up. "Mr Mackintosh?"

Eric Mackintosh turned his ice-grey eyes on the detective. "Buckman." It wasn't a question.

"Sir, thank you for seeing us."

"Us?"

"This is Detective Beckett."

Mackintosh smiled at her. "Detective." At least he was slightly more civil. He looked back at Buckman. "Now, what is this all about?" He dropped his tennis bag and indicated the chair, taking one himself. He crossed his legs, his thighs stretching his shorts.

A waiter appeared at his elbow. "Sir?"

"Ah. Iced tea, Christopher." He looked expectantly at the other two.

"I'm good, thanks," Buckman said, having taken his seat.

"And you, Detective?" Mackintosh turned his cool gaze on Kate. "Can I refresh your glass?"

"Sure. Why not?" Kate said, keeping it light, all the while her inner cop warning her to be on her guard, even as she took the opportunity to study the other man.

She noted the surprisingly well-groomed pepper and salt hair after an apparently strenuous tennis game (w_ig_? her inner cop asked, _so maybe vain?_), the long fingers with manicured nails (_someone else to do his dirty work?_), the trim body that suggested he did more than play racquet sports to work out (_strong – able to overcome a weaker opponent_), the dark, even tan (_but they knew he didn't have to work for a living_).

It was with a jolt that she realised the man in front of her was the same age as Castle – if she hadn't known she'd have said, despite appearances, that he was a decade older.

"Thank you, Christopher," Mackintosh said, effectively dismissing the waiter, who hurried away. "Now, where were we?"

Buckman shifted in his seat, then said, "Althea Banks."

Mackintosh gazed at him, his face expressionless. "So you said when you called my office."

"I'm sure you've seen in the local news about the woman's body found on the beach."

"I rarely read the local papers, but I believe I've heard a little about it. Although I'm not sure what it has to do with me."

"You don't recognise the name?"

Mackintosh didn't speak for a moment, gazing at the other man, then seemed to come to a decision. "Buckman, you have to understand, I don't personally know this woman," he said, dismissing Althea Banks with a slight shrug of one shoulder. "But when you rang my office to make this appointment, I asked them to check. Apparently someone by that name had called, asked to speak to me. She wouldn't say why, so of course they refused."

"And they didn't tell you?" Kate asked.

Buckman glared at her. _Accompany and observe_, the look said. _Not interfere._

"No, why should they?" Mackintosh half-smiled. "They know who my friends are, and if I wish to talk to any of my acquaintances I call them. I don't speak to anyone if I don't choose to." The smile faded. "But I still don't see what this has to do with me."

Buckman stepped back in. "Your mother ... was Carly Mackintosh."

"Of course."

"And she disappeared."

"This is common knowledge, Buckman." Mackintosh's voice had taken on a harder edge, and the continued repetition of the detective's surname, while normal enough in the precinct – after all, other police officers called Kate _Beckett_ – here it was being used almost as an insult. "And I'm sure there's no connection."

"I understand, sir, but it was the manner in which Althea Banks was found that makes that connection." He handed across a photo. "This is her."

It was the shot taken in the morgue, high enough to only hint at the y-incision marring her torso. She could almost have been asleep.

Mackintosh studied it. "No. I've never met her." His cool gaze lifted. "But I can see why you asked. This isn't my mother."

"I never suggested it was."

"My mother was far more … delicate than this. Far less …" He was searching for the right word, and Kate had the irrational conviction he was attempting not to call her common. Whatever he was looking for he finally dismissed it with a wave of the photo. "I don't know who this woman is."

"She didn't come to your house, or attempt to contact you on your private line?" Buckman pushed.

"I said no."

"Of course you did." Buckman almost smiled. Almost. "Mr Mackintosh, can you account for your movements on Monday?"

"Must I?" It wasn't a refusal as much as an imposition.

"It's routine. Just for elimination purposes."

Mackintosh almost sighed. "I suppose so. Well, I had a meeting in the city on Monday morning, so I drove up early. One of my companies has several floors of a block off Madison, so I spent most of the day there, doing various pieces of business. By the time I'd finished it was too late to drive back so I stayed in the corporate apartment."

"Not your own home?"

"There wasn't much point for just one night. And the apartment is well furnished."

"Did anyone see you?"

"I imagine so. I ordered dinner in, watched some television … I'm sure someone noticed me." He smiled. "I _am_ Eric Mackintosh, after all."

"Yes."

"Is that it? Only I have another engagement …"

Buckman stood up. "For the moment."

"That sounds ominous." Mackintosh was happy now.

"There may be a couple more questions, perhaps some clarification."

Mackintosh got to his feet. "Well, if there's anything else, just contact my secretary. She'll know where I am." He held out his hand. "Buckman."

"Mr Mackintosh."

They shook as Kate stood up and moved back out into the full sunlight. It seemed little enough to have waited all that time for, and she was surprised Buckman hadn't mentioned the dress, or Carly's disappearance except in passing. Still, there had been times she'd played her own questions close to her chest, keeping back information she could use to confront a suspect later.

She stopped breathing for a second. Was that what Mackintosh was? A suspect? Castle obviously thought so, at least from the murder wall she'd taken a closer look at. But if his alibi could be corroborated …

Mackintosh turned to her. "Detective. A pleasure to meet you." He took her hand, holding it slightly longer than was necessary, before letting go and picking up his tennis bag. "Another time." He smiled and walked away.

She resisted the temptation to wipe her hand down her pants, despite the fact that his grip had been warm and dry.

"Come on," Buckman said. "Let's get out of here before I kill someone."

Kate waited until they were outside again, walking back to the cars, before stating what had been on her mind ever since Mackintosh had sat down. "You don't like him."

"Is it that obvious?"

"I'm a cop. I notice things like that. Besides, you were too nice to him."

"Like he said, he's Eric Mackintosh. He's one of the richest bastards in the Hamptons."

"That doesn't mean he's above the law."

"No, but it does mean he can afford the best lawyers. We were lucky – he could've called in the big guns to be there, but he didn't."

"He wanted to look innocent."

"He might be."

"You think so?"

"Detective Beckett, I'm keeping an open mind. There's no evidence one way or the other, not yet. And the fact that I don't like the man ... well, it just means I have to be that much more careful."

"Gut feeling?"

Buckman leaned on the top of his car, hands turning the key absently. "I don't listen to my gut."

"Then your cop instincts. Whatever you want to call it."

"My instincts say to wait and see." He held up a hand to forestall Kate's objections. "And we've got someplace else to be."

"Where?"

Buckman's lips twitched. "How good are you at following?"

"Like I said, I'm a cop."

"Great. You follow me and you'll find out."

* * *

Michael Farraday, ME to the East Hampton police force, looked about twelve. He wasn't, of course, but with his fresh face, light tenor voice and cheery demeanour, Kate could well believe he had just left high school. It was only when he smiled, and the lines were a little deeper at the corner of his eyes than expected, that she could almost believe he had been in the same graduating class as Lanie.

"Hey, Mike," Buckman said, leading the way into the pathology lab.

"Buck." Faraday tossed the sheet back over the body he'd just finished sewing up. "You're late."

"We got caught up." Buckman nodded down at the shrouded figure. "Anyone I know?"

"Nope. A kid from the city. Ran his car off the pier, thanks to a combination of booze and marijuana."

"An accident?"

"Waiting to happen." Faraday signalled a tech, who hurried silently forward on shuttered feet to roll the gurney away. "I think Marty's informing next of kin."

"Rather him than me." Buckman waited until the doors had swung to before saying, "This is Detective Kate Beckett, by the way. NYPD."

Faraday grinned. "Best looking woman we've had in here in a long time. And I count those on the slab, too."

"Ignore him," Buckman advised. "He doesn't get to see the outside world that much. I think the formaldehyde's made him senile."

"Just because I get better conversations from my customers." Faraday laughed. "Anyway, Lanie told me you'd be coming."

"Lanie?" Buckman looked intrigued.

"Lanie Parish, our ME," Kate explained.

"And an old friend," Faraday added.

"Is that why I feel outnumbered?" Buckman shook his head, but for once he was actually looking relaxed.

"Buck, you feel outnumbered when you're on your own." Faraday stripped the latex gloves from his hands with a snap before saying to Kate, "Anyway, it's nice to finally meet you. I hope Lanie hasn't told you too many of my secrets."

"Not a one, I assure you."

"Then remind me later to tell you some of hers."

"Mike, can we get down to business?" Buckman interrupted.

"No problem." Faraday's eyes twinkled. "But before I forget. Sunday. My place. Barbecue."

"Not sure I can make it." Buckman sounded almost apologetic. "I might be working."

"Even you must get some time off."

"I'll see."

"I'm surprised Kelly doesn't divorce you. She hardly sees you at the best of times."

"Yeah, well, she spends a lot of her spare time at the hospital."

"Cassie any better?"

"They're … hopeful."

"Good. Anyway, you give them my love and tell Cassie I'll be by in a day or two. I might even bring her something interesting."

"Mike, you spoil her."

"And who else do I have to spend my hard-earned money on?"

"Get yourself a wife. Then you won't have a penny to spare."

"I'm going to tell Kelly you said that. Maybe then she'd leave you and come to me."

"Mike. Please. Work. You got anything new to give me?"

"Not much." Faraday grew serious. "There's no viable DNA from the sexual activity, which isn't surprising since the body was immersed in water. I did, though, find some marks around her neck, showing possible strangulation."

"I thought she drowned."

"She did. The internal damage wasn't enough for asphyxiation, so it's more likely to be for some other reason."

"During the rape?"

"There's no particular indication the sex wasn't consensual, but from the levels of tranquilliser it's probable she wasn't in a full state of wakefulness."

"So our perp liked playing games."

Kate knew what he was alluding to. Some rapists enjoyed half-strangling their victims, letting them breathe so they think they're going to survive, then doing it again. It was all about control. "He's a sadist," she commented.

"As far as I'm concerned, all rapists are," Buckman said, pulling at the waistband of his pants.

"Oh, and before you ask, no," Faraday continued. "I checked. She wasn't frozen. There's no sign of cell lysis which there would be, particularly if she'd been stored for thirty years."

Kate looked at Buckman in surprise. "You asked?"

"Of course." The detective's mouth twitched. "I had to eliminate the possibility."

"She'd eaten," Faraday went on, "a burger and fries. From the amount of digestion I'd say probably lunchtime. After that nothing until the champagne."

"Champagne?"

"Mmn. I'd guess the tranqs were dissolved in it. An expensive bottle, too. Bollinger Blanc."

"How much?"

"Around $400 a pop."

"Shit."

"Something to do with the grapes used, apparently." Faraday turned away and picked up a large paper evidence bag. "And I got out what you wanted."

"Ah, great."

Using a scalpel to open the bottom of the bag, Faraday tipped out a riot of colour onto the stainless steel table.

"The Fabrigazi," Kate murmured.

"It seemed a shame," Faraday said, "but we had to get it off her. Still, I think we did a good job opening it up by the seam." He flattened it out as best he could, the fabric crackling slightly as salt crystals were dislodged.

"It looks the same," Kate said, studying it. "Can we see the back?"

"No problem." Faraday turned the dress over.

Kate held out her phone, thumbing to the second of the pictures Esposito had forwarded. "I'd say we had a match."

Faraday peered over her shoulder. "I agree. It's not something I've come across before. Very complicated."

"The Fabrigazi twist." She took a deep breath. "And just one other check …" Very carefully she lifted the back of the dress away along the open seam, exposing the inside of the low neckline at the back. There, stitched into the binding, was a black satin label, crumpled and salt-stained, but unmistakably showing two initials in tarnished silver – an intertwined _E F_ – and the number 935.

"His?" Buckman asked, finally convinced.

"And the number of this particular unique creation," Kate confirmed.

Buckman hitched his thumbs in his pants waistband and exhaled heavily. "So it's not a fake. Or a copy."

"No."

"Then how the hell did it get from Carly Mackintosh to Althea Banks?"

Kate couldn't answer.

Faraday, on the other hand, gave a short grunt of laughter. "I've no idea," he said. "Which is why I'm the pathologist and you're the cop."

"You're no help," Buckman grumbled, just as his cell rang. He stepped back to answer it.

Faraday took the opportunity to corral Kate against the table. "If you're still here on Sunday, you're more than welcome to come by my place, join the crowd. They're not all cops."

Kate smiled. "I'll think about it."

"That means no."

"No, it means I'll think about it."

"You can bring Castle if you have to."

Now Kate laughed. "Does his reputation precede him?"

"No. Just what Lanie told me over the phone." He nudged her. "Go on. Live dangerously."

"I'll ask. Okay?"

"No, but I suppose it will have to do."

Buckman's call finished and he slid his phone back into his pocket. Stepping forward again he shook his head. "Well, Detective Beckett, it looks like you're going to have the pleasure of my company for a while longer," he said.

"Oh? Why?"

"It seems your friend has been arrested. Again."

Kate's jaw dropped. "Castle?"


	12. Chapter 12

"This is interesting," Rick said, looking around the bar. It was still fairly early in the day, but there were a dozen patrons sitting or standing, beers in front of them or in their hands. The light coming in from outside was yellowish, coloured by the old nicotine stained paper stuck to the windows. All in all it gave him a feeling of being deep under the ocean, where all colour had been leeched away, sucked up by the ceiling fan turning desultorily above them.

"Not what you're used to?" Jerry asked, his white teeth almost glowing in the gloom as he grinned.

"You wouldn't believe the places I've been to in the name of research." Rick breathed in deeply, the air tasting of old food, stale beer and sweaty bodies, and tried valiantly not to cough. "It's great," he said, feeling his eyes tearing up.

Jerry chuckled. "Yeah, well, it's one of the few places the money hasn't gotten to yet. You get used to it. And believe me, it used to be a hell of a lot worse."

"Before the ban on smoking, you mean?"

"Man, you were lucky if it was cigarettes." He led the way to the bar. "Hey, Lonnie."

The bartender turned from where he was stacking clean glasses, his long face cracking into a faint smile. "Jerry. What brings you here in daylight? Thought you were like a vampire and only dropped by at night."

"Looking for Brass."

"That's nice for you." Lonnie nodded towards the back of the bar. "He's over there."

"What kind of mood is he in?"

Lonnie didn't answer, just took a bottle of scotch from under the bar and poured three glasses.

"I don't need a drink," Rick put in.

"It's not for you," Lonnie said.

"That bad, huh?" Jerry picked up two of the glasses, indicating Rick should carry the third. "I may be back."

"You running a tab?" the barkeep asked.

Jerry looked at Rick. "Boss."

"Oh. Right." Rick fished in his pocket and pulled out a fifty dollar bill, telling himself he really needed to replace the wallet that had been stolen.

"I'll have 'em ready for you," Lonnie promised, making the bill disappear like a true magician.

Jerry led the way to the table, sliding easily into one of the spare seats. Rick did the same next to him, his side to the rest of the room.

Brass glared at them then looked shiftily around the bar. "Shouldn't be talking to you, man," he whined.

Jerry put the two glasses he was carrying down in front of Brass, then slouched back in his chair, looking for all the world like he was bored solid. "You said you had something for me."

"He a cop?" Brass nodded towards Rick, quickly picking up one glass and emptying it with barely a shudder.

"Him? Nah."

"I'm just looking to get some of my property back," Rick put in, sliding his own glass across.

"It'll cost." Brass sniffed, giving the impression any money that changed hands was going to go up his nose.

"That's not an issue." Rick went to pat his pocket, but Jerry stopped him.

"Talk first. Cash after," the cab driver said.

Brass rubbed at the stubble on his face, then his gaze went pointedly behind them. "See the guy playing pool? In the leather vest and black T?"

The other men took a surreptitious look.

"The one with the tatts?" Rick asked.

Brass chuckled, like pebbles tossed against a tombstone. "Most guys in here have tattoos. But yeah. Him." He lifted one of the glasses and tossed the liquid down his throat. "Waldo Sigerson."

"Why do I know the name?" Jerry asked.

"Owns that garage on Highland. Does a lot of bodywork. And a lot more."

"So what about him?"

"He's been flashing notes for a while. Talking up big. And now he's wearing something really shiny."

Rick's brows drew together. "What?"

Brass held up his arm and tapped his wrist. "A watch, man. A watch."

Rick tried not to whip his head around so fast it hurt, and managed to make it look almost natural as he studied the pool player out of the corner of his eye.

Waldo Sigerson was tall, broad and pony-tailed, his hair hanging down his back to between his shoulder blades. Not that anyone was likely to call him feminine, however, not with those muscles bulging under the tight t-shirt. He was waiting for his opponent to take a shot, using the cue as support, his left hand tucked into the back pocket of his jeans. As Rick watched he unhitched it, bringing it around to scratch his ear …

"Shit," Rick breathed in recognition.

"You sure?" Jerry murmured.

"Positive."

Jerry looked back at Brass. "He say where he got it?"

"You think I asked?" Brass's voice went almost hypersonic. He coughed and downed a second drink. "I'm not that crazy," he finally said. "That son of a bitch'd stick me soon as look at me."

The thought crossed Rick's mind that it might have less to do with Waldo's temperament and more to do with Brass's obvious dislike of personal hygiene, but wisely decided not to verbalise it. "You think he'd like a game?" he asked instead.

"Are you serious?" Jerry shook his head. "Boss, that really isn't a good idea."

"Sure it is. Maybe I can get him talking."

"He'll fleece the pants off you."

"I'm not a bad player," Rick admitted with a certain amount of pride. "But if he does that'll be even better. He'll let his guard down."

"No, look …" Jerry began, but Rick had already got to his feet.

"Don't worry," he assured them. "I know what I'm doing."

"Right."

The pool game had just finished as Rick approached the table. "Hi." He smiled.

The loser ignored him, tossing a crumpled handful of notes onto the baize before hurrying away. Waldo Sigerson picked them up, smoothing them out before tucking them in his pocket. Only then did he look sideways at Rick. "What?"

"Just watching you there. You're a decent player."

"So?"

"I thought maybe you'd like to try your luck against me."

"Now, why would I want to do that?"

"Because I'm a pretty fair player myself."

"So?" Waldo asked again.

"How much did you just win?"

"None of your damn business." The words were spoken in a quiet tone, but there was steel inside them.

"Then let's make it interesting. Whatever you've got in your pocket, I'll bet double. I win, you give me your cash. You win, I pay you twice what you've got."

Waldo's eyes almost glowed with mercenary acquisition. "You pay me double what I've already got?" he asked, making sure of the bet.

"If you win."

"I always win."

"Then you won't mind taking the bet, will you?" Rick lifted a cue from the rack. "In fact, if you're so certain, why not add that fancy watch in too?"

Waldo glanced at his wrist. "My watch?"

"Yeah. Why not? I win, I get your cash _and _the watch. You win, you get money and … oh, I don't know, a grand more?"

"A thousand bucks."

"Sure."

"Now why would you want to do that, I wonder?"

Rick shrugged. "Boredom. I came here for the summer with my lady friend, but we argued and she left. So here I am, trying to find things to occupy myself."

"And you thought coming to a place like this might be fun?"

"Better than sitting at home watching the seagulls." He paused a split second. "If it's real. The watch, that is."

"Oh, it's real."

"Can I see? I mean, if I'm going to bet that kind of cash, I want to know I'm not in it for a twenty dollar fake."

Waldo glared at him, but after a moment leaned his pool cue against the table and undid the watch. "Don't scratch it," he warned.

"I won't." Rick took it, ostensibly testing the weight, checking out the details, when what he really wanted to do was turn it over and look at the back. Eventually he did just that, his eyes drawn to the engraving: _IAHOB – In Memoriam_.

It was a joke, of course, based on the fact that although his first book _In a Hail of Bullets_ had won the Tom Straw Award for Mystery Literature, it wasn't until his name had appeared on the bestseller list three more times that he seriously considered himself a full-time novelist. As far as he was concerned, up until that point it could all have been a cosmic prank perpetrated by the gods of good literary taste about to pull the rug out from under him.

"Well?" Waldo asked, getting impatient. "You keep staring at it, you're gonna wear it out."

Rick lifted his head and handed the watch back, trying not to cling onto it. "Looks okay," he said, seeing the other man strapping it back around his wrist. "And I'll be generous. A grand it is."

Waldo smiled slowly, showing good teeth despite making Rick think of a snake about to strike. "Sure. Why not?" He nodded towards the table. "Rack 'em up."

* * *

What Rick had said was true, he wasn't a bad player at all, but as predicted the game went poorly, partly through his attempts to lose and partly due to Waldo's skill. The big man had a natural talent, but wasn't averse to trying to psych Rick out with his presence, standing all too close on some shots, although he was also pretty much silent. Nothing Rick could do or say would make him talk.

Finally, as Waldo launched the 8-ball into the centre pocket, Rick allowed his irritation to show. "Double or quits," he demanded.

"What, you win and I get nothing?" Waldo scoffed. "Forget it."

"Then …" Rick seemed to be searching for a solution. "Then you win you get double my original bet. I win, I get the watch."

The look on Waldo's face wavered between believing his opponent was either a gold plated sucker just ready for the plucking, or totally looney-tunes, but either way he could see cash at the end of the rainbow. "You sure you can afford it?" he asked, the corner of his mouth lifting.

"Of course I can!" Rick insisted, pulling the remaining money from his pocket. "Here," he said, handing it to Lonnie. "And there's more where that came from." He heard Jerry sigh, but ignored it.

Waldo, on the other hand, chuckled. "Hey, it's your funeral." He started to gather the balls.

_Hell, I hope not_, Rick thought, but said, "Wait a minute. You need to put up your side."

"My side?"

"The watch."

For the longest of moments the man simply stood, and everyone in the bar waited for the explosion. Instead, though, he nodded. "Fine. I'll be getting it back soon, anyway." He quickly unclipped the strap and handed it to Lonnie. "Now, are we gonna play or what?"

This time they were neck and neck down to the wire, until there was just one solid, one striped and the 8-ball remaining.

Waldo lined up what should have been an easy shot, but for some reason the 3-ball rattled in the mouth of the pocket and refused to fall. He swore violently and threw his cue to the floor.

Jerry, watching from the sidelines, tensed, as did Lonnie behind the bar. Stepping up behind Rick he whispered, "Seriously, you don't want to win."

"I have to," Rick asserted. "It's part of the plan."

"Bad plan. This guy's likely to take you apart."

"Are you gonna play or just standing around making goo-goo eyes at each other?" Waldo demanded.

"Play," Rick said, moving to the table. He studied the position of his last ball, the red-striped number 11. Waldo's miss had covered the pocket he would normally have used, and despite the wide open table he was awkwardly placed. Still, there was the possibility of … "Bottom right," he said.

"You sure?" Waldo had picked up his cue and was cradling it like a gun.

"Sure." Rick lined up, then paused. "You know, I'm glad I ran into you."

"Why, you like losing money?"

"No. But I'm not talking about pool. I hear tell you're the man to see about doing some business."

Waldo stiffened, and Jerry saw Lonnie start to move towards the phone.

"What kind of business?"

"Purchases." Rick ran the cue through his fingers, feeling the grain of the wood. "Good stuff."

"I don't sell drugs."

Rick refrained from looking skeptical. "No, not that kind." He grinned, standing back and checking the position of the other balls again. "I'm looking for computer equipment. High end. Expensive."

"Really."

"Really. And I'm willing to pay top dollar."

"And who told you I could supply you with anything like that?"

Rick glanced at Brass, who went white and scuttled towards the men's room at the back of the bar.

Waldo snorted. "Yeah, well, he talks too much."

"So he's wrong?"

"Might be. Might not. But I thought we were playing pool?"

"Can't we do both?"

"Take the damn shot," Waldo advised. "And if you make can make that, I might give you a good deal."

"Fine." Rick smiled and got back into position. Once, twice … then the tip of the cue made contact with the white ball. It rolled straight and true, hitting the 11-ball just to one side of centre, sending it into the cushion, narrowly avoiding Waldo's remaining ball, and slipping into the pocket like it was coming home.

Rick couldn't help it. He grinned widely.

Waldo growled.

Lonnie hung up the phone, and started moving breakables away from the line of fire.

"So not a good idea," Jerry muttered.

The 8-ball, by contrast, was simple.

"I win," Rick said, standing up as the ball disappeared.

"Nope, I don't think so." Waldo was almost strangling the pool cue.

"Hey, fair and square."

"Give me the money."

"I won. You lost."

"I don't see it that way. I say you suckered me in on the last game by losing on purpose, just so's I'd bet bigger this time. I call that cheating. You owe me."

"Come on," Rick said, trying to be reasonable. "We had a bet, remember?"

"You owe me." The repetition of the words was accompanied by Waldo slapping the wooden pool cue against the palm of his left hand.

"Everyone here backs me up, right?" Rick looked around the bar, but the patrons suddenly seemed to be more interested in their drinks than the spectacle going on in front of them. "O-kay."

Jerry tugged his arm. "It's not worth it, man."

"It is to me."

"It's a damn watch. You can buy another."

"Yeah," Waldo said. "You're flashing cash, you can go and buy a hundred. After you've reimbursed me."

If Rick was surprised at this man knowing, let alone using, a word like reimbursed, he didn't show it. "Fine," he said. "How about we say we both won, I take the watch and pay you the thousand?"

Waldo shook his head slowly. "No. I'm thinking I'm gonna keep the watch, and you're gonna give me every cent you've got."

"No, now that's not fair."

"Life ain't." He swung the pool cue, but Rick was ready.

He ducked, feeling the stick part the air above him and ruffle his hair. Rick took a step back. "Waldo, you don't want to do this."

"Oh, I'm pretty sure I do." He struck again with the cue, which Rick just managed to avoid, but the big man tossed the stick away and followed up immediately with a body check that took them onto the floor, demolishing one of the tables, Waldo's hands around his neck.

Rick managed to get a right jab into the other man's stomach but it was like hitting a punching bag. In desperation he brought his knee up quickly, catching some point of Waldo's body that at least had his opponent rolling away. He staggered to his feet, only to find them swept out from under him, pitching him face first into a chair, which splintered under his weight.

Lonnie was shouting, as was Jerry, but Waldo wasn't listening.

Waldo pulled Rick around, punching him on the jaw and making his teeth slam together. He raised his left hand, ready to do so again, then the sound of sirens approaching made him pause. He swore, then pushed himself upright, but not before burying his fist in Rick's solar plexus.

Rick wrapped his arms around his belly, trying to get air into his lungs, wondering if maybe everyone else had been right and he was about to get the crap kicked out of him.

Waldo tried to see out of the stained windows, but he knew at least one car was heading his way. He took a step towards the bar, but the watch and money were gone.

"You go. Now," Lonnie said, pointing towards the rear of the bar.

Waldo growled, seemed ready to make a stand, then thought better of it. He ran out, just as the doors at the front slammed open.

"Okay," said one of the brace of cops, his hand very close to his weapon. "What the hell is going on here?"

* * *

"Are you insane?"

Rick looked up, or at least tried to out of one good eye, amazed at how glad he felt to see her. "Kate."

The detective hurried across the squad room to where he was sitting at Buckman's desk.

"Damn it, Castle." She went down onto her heels in front of him, her fingers gently touching his face, tracing the damage. "You look like crap."

"You should see the other guy."

"Not a mark on him?"

"Nary a one." He tried to smile but it hurt. Not that he cared. Not when she was being almost solicitous about his well-being. And her touch …

She was right, though. He looked like someone had dragged him into the middle of a freeway and let the cars hit him. His left eye was swollen, and would soon be a rather interesting shade of purple, while a steri-stripped cut on his forehead had run blood down his cheek, somewhat badly mopped up by the wadded tissue in his hand. His bottom lip was split, and there appeared to be bruises colouring nicely around his neck.

"Is the rest of you as bad?"

"Why, want to see?" He went to lift his shirt.

"Castle."

This time he managed a chuckle. "Come on, Kate. Anyone would think I was offering to ravish you right here."

"It didn't even cross my mind."

"It did mine," he admitted.

"Why am I not surprised?" She took one last look at him then stood up. "What I _am_ surprised at is the fact that you're not down in the cells."

"They took pity on me," Rick explained, feeling his neck twinge as he gazed at her.

"I don't think they could face the paperwork," Buckman admitted, walking through the bull pen towards them.

"So Castle's not under arrest?"

"I think I've persuaded them to drop it."

"Why would you do that?"

Buckman scratched his head. "Well, as much as I'm loathe to admit it, thanks to your boyfriend here I've got the first solid lead on the burglaries in a long damn while."

"He's not my boyfriend."

"Lucky you."

"So what exactly happened?"

Buckman went over the essentials, adding, "He's probably going to have to contribute towards the cost of the damage that was done, but otherwise he's free to go."

"He can afford it."

"I'm sure he can." He looked at Rick. "Just be glad Lonnie called the cops when he did. Otherwise we'd probably be visiting you in the morgue. And tell Jerry I'm going to be having words with him."

"Jerry?" Kate asked, sure she'd heard the name.

"Jerry Reyes," Buckman explained. "He drives a local cab. He's okay."

Rick realised that, from the detective, this was high praise.

"Is that the guy I saw you talking with yesterday?" Kate asked.

"That's him," Rick said, nodding, then deciding he didn't want to do that again.

"So this is his fault?"

"No. Mine. Entire and whole." He moved his jaw from side to side. "Every single solitary bruise."

Buckman grunted what could have been a laugh. "Just take him home. Or better yet, to a hospital."

Kate glared at the injured man. "He refused to go?"

"A hot shower, maybe a back rub, I'll be fine," Rick insisted.

The glare got colder. "Come on."

Rick climbed achingly to his feet. "Wait a minute, what about my watch?"

"It's evidence," Buckman said, dropping into his own chair. "You get it back after we prosecute. Now go away before I change my mind."

"Just so long as I do."

"Go."

Kate pulled his arm and made him move through the desks towards the exit. "What exactly were you doing in that place?" she hissed at him.

"Helping."

"Helping?" She had to resist the almost overwhelming urge to pinch him. "Helping? Who, exactly? Me, into an early grave?"

"Oh, Kate, I didn't know you cared."

"I don't. But I also don't want to have to tell your mother and Alexis that you're dead."

"Yes, that could be awkward." Rick glanced over his shoulder back towards where Buckman was watching them leave. "Was he flirting with you?" he wanted to know.

She didn't deign to answer.


	13. Chapter 13

She waited until he was back inside the beach house before turning on him.

"What the hell was that all about?" Kate demanded.

Rick went straight for the kitchen, filling a tea towel with ice from the freezer. "I wanted a drink."

The anger bubbled over at his flippant reply. "Castle, if you want my help … damn it, if you want to come back to the Department at all, you tell me the truth."

He stared at her, seeing nothing but honesty in her eyes. "Okay. You want the truth? I was angry."

"Angry? At what?"

He stormed into the living room, knowing she would follow, and pointed at the wall. "That. I should be able to see it, at least feel the edges, and I can't. All I have are threads, and every time I pull on one it unravels."

"So you … what, thought solving some other crime would help?"

"It's …" How could he explain? That it was his past, the first thing he'd ever bought himself that cost more than a hundred dollars? Or maybe he should admit it was his link with another time, his reminder that it could all be taken away from him. Or he could be honest. Instead he went with, "It's my watch, Kate." That, at least, was the truth.

"It means that much to you."

"More."

She glanced down at the man's watch on her own wrist, her father's, remembering when she'd told him about it, when he'd had it fixed after the bomb blast. "Okay. I get that. But you could have been seriously hurt."

"You don't call this serious?" He motioned towards his face.

"No. I call that a scratch compared to what might have happened."

"Then it's lucky Mother's gone back to the city."

"She has?" He was trying to distract her, she knew, and for just a moment allowed it. "When?"

"We took her to the station on the way to the bar," Rick explained, heading back for the kitchen and the improvised ice pack. Leaning on the counter he placed it against his cheek, feeling it taking down the heat with painful certainty.

"It's not your fault," Kate said, leaning on the door jamb. "I told you that. You didn't kill Althea."

He glared at her, something he so rarely did it made her breath catch. "Then how come it feels like that? That, if I can't figure out who did it, I might as well have?"

Now the irritation was growing, and there was too much of it for her not to scratch. "You really want to wallow? Fine. I'll call Buckman – I'm sure he'd be pleased to throw you in the cells for a while. And I'll go back to the city and leave you there."

"That's what you want, is it?"

"What I want is for you to stop this."

"Stop what?" His blue eyes bored into her, biting through her skull to turn her brain to jelly. "Worrying about a case? This from Kate Beckett, who's been known to chase the bad guys for years?" The instant the words were out of his mouth his lips slammed shut, but it was too late.

"If you're talking about my mother, don't." Her voice had lowered, promising retribution if he didn't comply.

"Or what?" He stepped into her personal space. "What, Kate?"

He had to get angry sometimes. No man could go through life on a perfectly even keel, so she knew he had to feel the raw and aching pain occasionally. But she knew he kept it hidden, inside, probably letting all that bile and corruption out on the page rather than throw things in real life. On the outside he made light of things, skirted around issues, pushed them away until they decayed to nothing of their own accord. Only now he couldn't. Or maybe he'd had enough and he wasn't going to take any more.

Her own anger drained away like a stopcock had been opened, and she'd run dry. Maybe he was concussed from the fight, or perhaps this had been coming on for a long time, but she understood. "Come on," she said, taking his arm and wrapping her hand around it.

"Where?"

"Just to sit down. Come on."

He allowed himself to be led, albeit ungracefully, back into the living area, and pushed gently into the lounger. In those few steps, though, his attitude changed. "Sorry, Kate."

"What for?"

"Being me."

"Castle, I'm not sure all the apologies in the world are going to make up for that."

He laughed, then looked surprised, as if it had been forced out of him. "You know, I think you're right."

"Anyway, it's okay to get angry. Just don't do it at yourself. Do it at the bastard that killed her."

Shaking his head, he dropped it back onto the leather. "But I don't know who that was." He stared at the ceiling. "This case has got to me. I don't want to leave it half done."

"Did you think I was going to make you?"

"I don't know. Maybe." He looked at her. "I'm not a cop, Kate. And no matter how much I want to, I can't do this by myself." He realised water was dripping from the towel, and quickly rearranged it before pressing it to his face again, wincing slightly.

"You don't have to," she said softly, perching on the arm of the other chair. "I'm here."

"Yeah." He smiled slightly. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." Standing up she went to the French windows, opening them and letting the salt-tinted air inside. "I still think Buckman was right, though."

"What about?"

"You should be in a hospital."

"I hate those places."

"Me too, but if you've got concussion –"

"I don't." He grinned, more like the Richard Castle she knew than before. "Believe me, I have plenty of experience of concussion, and right now all I have is a headache. Admittedly, it feels like Mother's old chorus line doing a tap dance in miner's boots across my forehead, but that'll go."

"Castle –"

"No, Kate. No hospital. But I wouldn't mind some tea."

She narrowed her eyes at him, but went into the kitchen anyway.

* * *

"That's better," Rick said, putting his empty mug down. "You make a good cup."

"My mother taught me. She always said if a woman can make decent tea, then a man would overlook any other idiosyncrasies."

"And did your father?"

"Always."

"You'll have to introduce us one day."

"You think there's going to be a one day?"

His blue gaze lasered into her again. "Are you saying there won't be?"

"I … I don't know." She suddenly felt flustered and stood up, gathering the tea things together. Then something made her say, "You left, Castle. Walked out with Gina."

"I said I'd be back."

"I'm not sure I believed you." _Or that you could do that to me. With her._ Words thought but not spoken.

"I didn't think you'd miss me. You had Demming."

"So you needed someone as well?"

"Maybe I didn't want to be alone."

His words brought her up short. Was that honestly it? Not some kind of cruel tit for tat, but just so he didn't have to be on his own? "You didn't have to leave the city at all." Not what she wanted to say, but safer.

"I did. It's traditional. Just because Alexis had other things to do, and Mother was off playing the ingénue …" He stopped, licked his lips. "I thought it would be okay."

"But with _her_?"

Rick couldn't help it – he laughed. "Oh, Kate, you have no idea how much I've wondered why myself. My little black book is overflowing with women wanting to be with me, so … maybe it was the devil you know."

"You could have stayed. Worked. Helped."

"And felt like a fifth wheel?" He shook his head. "Not my style."

Martha had nailed it, Kate realised. He thought he was being the big man, stepping to one side, when in reality all she wanted him to do was – what, exactly? Take her in his arms and tell her he loved her? Unlikely. Throw his coat over the nearest puddle and declare undying loyalty? Closer. Roll over on his back so she could rub his belly and make his leg twitch? Absolutely. She tried to squash the smirk that threatened. "So you came out here and worked on _Naked Heat_ instead."

"Finished _Naked Heat_."

"Really?"

"Well, mostly," he admitted. "Needs tidying up, of course."

"Only there's an awful lot of notes on it lying around. I wondered if you were blocked." She was changing the subject, and happy to do so.

"Not blocked. Never blocked." He waved his hand. "Just … trying different things."

"Right."

"Honestly."

"I believe you."

He smiled at her, then moved his jaw around gingerly as the cuts and bruises made themselves known. "There goes my ruggedly handsome looks for a few days," he sighed.

"Only a few days?" she quipped.

"Cruel." He waved a finger at her. "Very, very cruel." He laid his head back again. "So, your visit to the Maidstone Club … what did you find out? Is Eric a murderer?"

"I don't think we asked."

"Gut reaction."

"I don't know." She worried her bottom lip for a second with her top teeth. "There's something he's not telling us, but at the moment …"

"Tell me what happened."

"You sure?"

"I like your voice. It's … soothing."

Soothing? She shook her head. "You're worse than you thought." But with a slight smile, she began to go over the details as they knew them, from Eric Mackintosh insisting he didn't know Althea Banks from Adam – or, more correctly, Eve – to Faraday's revelation of possible erotic asphyxia, and the dress turning out to be genuine.

The she waited. And waited some more. "Well?" she asked.

He didn't answer.

"Castle."

Again nothing.

"Castle."

The only answer was a gull outside defending its territory.

"Rick."

"Yes, Mother?" He lifted his head and blinked a few times.

"I'm not your mother," she pointed out.

"Good thing too," he said, rubbing his neck. "Considering some of the dreams I've had in the past."

She ignored the comment and said instead, "Stand up." She got to her feet.

"Why?"

"You're going to bed."

"With you?"

"Alone."

"I'm not tired."

"Did you actually hear the last few things I said to you?"

He thought about it. "Not sure. Were you offering to give me a fully body massage?"

"No."

"Then I _must_ have been dreaming."

"Must have." She pulled him to his feet. "Come on. You need to rest."

"Ow." He pressed his hand gingerly to his side. "Don't worry," he said quickly at her look. "They're not broken. Just bruised. Like my ego." He shook his head. "I should have been able to take him."

"From what Buckman said, he had a couple of inches and twenty pounds on you."

"And a pool cue. Don't forget the pool cue."

"As if I could."

* * *

He'd made her stop as they reached his bedroom door, proclaiming that he'd been getting himself ready for bed for some time, so she should go and enjoy the rest of the day.

"I think there's a costume or two somewhere," he added. "Unless you want to skinny dip."

"I'm fine."

"Kate, you're at the beach. Do something spontaneous. Enjoy yourself." He'd dipped his head at that and planted a soft kiss on her cheek before disappearing into his room and closing the door.

She stood in shock for a moment, then wandered slowly back downstairs. Then up again to change into the bikini Lanie had forced her to bring. Might as well, she told herself. Be a waste otherwise.

The water was cold, making her almost regret her decision, but as it reached her thighs she jumped up and dived neatly under, swimming strongly and coming up some distance from shore. Looking back at the house, it struck her once again just how much Castle had to have in his bank accounts, to be able to afford a place like that. And he considered he was poor next to people like Eric Mackintosh.

No. Not now. This wasn't the time or place to be thinking about work, or murders, or anything like that. Rolling onto her back she stared into the blue sky, just the tiniest of white clouds dipping their toes in the huge expanse. No. Too nice a day to let her mind run on death.

Turning back she began a strong, economical front crawl, counting to fifty before turning back the other way. Again, then again, until she could feel her muscles starting to complain and she stopped, treading water. Looking shorewards again, she was surprised to find she was a lot further along from the house than she'd expected, and she began to breaststroke back.

Glancing at the unfamiliar bungalow opposite, she realised she wasn't making any headway, and her stomach flipped a little. She pulled harder, but it seemed she was moving backwards, away from Castle's home.

Panic tried to edge into her mind, but she pushed it ruthlessly away. Maybe she was caught in a rip current, something that was going to disappear as quickly as it had arrived. Even if it didn't, she had plenty of opportunity to pull for the shore. There was no reason she was going to get washed out into the ocean.

_Like Carly._

The little voice in the back of her mind was making it hard to think.

Stop. Calm down. Deep breaths. She trod water for a moment, but it was obvious she was still being swept along. Okay. Fine. Then there was nothing for it.

Putting her face back in the water, she began the front crawl again, this time pulling much more powerfully, tilting her head to take a breath, kicking hard as she angled towards the shore. Her muscles began to burn, and reminded her that she hadn't been swimming in a long while, at least not in the ocean, just as other memories crowded in. Her father had taught her that year they'd come to a place very like this. She could still remember his hands under her chin, holding her head out of the water, encouraging her as she doggy paddled forwards …

If she hadn't been holding her breath she would have laughed. Her life really was flashing before her eyes.

Suddenly her foot touched something rough, something that moved under her toes. She lifted her head. Sand. Sand underfoot and in front of her. She was barely a dozen feet from the water's edge.

She tried to stand, but for a moment her legs wouldn't hold her, and she sat back down with a splash. She could feel grains getting inside her bikini bottoms as it shifted beneath her, and she rolled onto her hands and knees, ignoring the scraping against her skin. She pushed herself upright, and walked out of the sea.

She leaned forward, her palms on her thighs, trying to get her breath back. Close. Too damn close. Finally feeling enough strength leaching into her to stand upright, she looked around. And this time she did laugh. There, almost within touching distance, was Castle's beach house. She'd actually overshot it by a hundred yards or so.

Feeling the sand scrunching under her soles, the sun burning down on her exposed skin, she walked slowly to where she'd left her towel. She shook her head, water droplets flying from the ends of her hair, and she pushed it back away from her face. Picking up the towel she wrapped it around herself and hurried up to the house, dropping into the lounger Martha had left out, waiting for her heartbeat to slow to something resembling normal.

Then it spiked again as her cellphone rang.

It was hard getting to her feet, and her legs felt like rubber as she walked into the blessed coolness of the house, but by the time she'd found her phone and pressed _answer_ she was at least in better control of herself.

"Beckett."

"Boss." It was Esposito. "How did it go at the morgue?"

Of course, they'd be wanting to know whether the information Fabrigazi had given them was enough to tell if the dress was real or not. "It's the original," she said, wiping at her shoulders with the end of the towel.

"So it got from Carly to Althea."

"Yes."

"Beckett, you okay? Only you sound … shaky."

Damn. "I'm fine. A touch of heat, perhaps."

"Yeah, that'll do it to you. Need to take more water with it."

"I haven't been drinking." Although that sounded like a fine idea.

"I believe you."

She could tell he was smiling, and was about to say something snarky when her eyes were caught by Castle's makeshift murder wall. And the photo of a young, dead woman.

"Esposito, I need you to look into Althea Banks. We've been so caught up in a thirty year old murder we've forgotten how this started in the first place."

"We can look into her background," he assured her. "How far do you want us to take it?"

"As far as you can. Siblings, parents, grandparents … her resemblance to Carly, and now the dress … there's way too many coincidences piling up for my peace of mind."

"You got it." Esposito paused, then went on, "You think this is why he became a writer?"

"What? Carly?"

"Yeah. Eight years old with a murder mystery right on his doorstep … could be."

"I'm not going to ask."

Esposito chuckled. "I wonder what he was like as a kid."

"Pretty much the same as he is now," she said. "Just get back to me when you've got something."

"Will do."

She hung up and took a deep breath. Just that brief conversation had given her body time to get back to normal, and she felt strong again. Better, too, now that she knew they were back on track, and not being distracted by coincidences.

She rubbed absently at her cheek, then stopped. He'd kissed her. Just a peck, and it wasn't as if it was the first time, but he'd kissed her. She could still feel his lips on her skin …

"Shit," she muttered. "Stop it, Kate. This isn't the time or place to be acting like a schoolgirl with a crush."

Better to do something, anything, rather than think about his closeness, the cologne he wore, that god-awful shirt she was going to burn if it was the last thing she ever did. Her eyes ranged around the room. Ah. The laptop. Its little light suggested it was merely asleep, and as she idly pressed the power button it bloomed into life.

She glanced up towards the bedroom, then picked up the computer and settled into the lounger, feeling the leather stick to her still damp skin.

It was open onto the default desktop, but there, large as life, was a shortcut icon saying _Naked Heat_. With one last glance to the heavens, she double clicked it open and began to read.


	14. Chapter 14

His mouth tasted like something had died in there a long time ago. Something fluffy. Or feathered.

Levering one eye open, Rick wasn't surprised to find he was face down on his pillow, arms spread across the counterpane, legs equally wide. He appeared to still be fully dressed, but when he wriggled his toes he had obviously kicked his shoes off at least.

It took an effort but he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, wondering why he was awake. The sky was getting lighter, as he could see through the gap in the curtains, but it was too early to get up and start work.

Then his stomach rumbled.

Ah. Hunger. He hadn't eaten much the day before, not since breakfast really, then what with the fight in the bar … God, the fight. Going into that place without a proper plan, with no backup, it was a wonder he'd managed to walk out of it on his own two feet.

He experimented with moving his jaw from side to side, then explored the proximity of his eye with his fingers. Not too bad. It ached, and he just knew the bruising was going to be spectacular, but at least nothing was broken. Even his teeth were intact, which was a blessing. In fact, as he swung his legs off the bed, his ribs complained most, but nothing that a couple of Advil and a strong cup of coffee wouldn't cure.

He glanced at his bedside clock. 5:17. Oh, yes, definitely too early.

Padding downstairs in his bare feet, he was about to go directly to the kitchen to raid the fridge when he realised somebody was already up. Well, not up, but not in bed. Kate, curled up on the recliner, her hair covering half of her face.

He smiled. She looked so cute like that, all mussed, her eyelashes trembling on her cheeks as she dreamed. The t-shirt she was wearing had slid past one shoulder, and he could see the tendons in her neck, just ready to be kissed …

Enough. She really would shoot him if he did that. In fact, he was surprised he wasn't lying dead in his bed after having given her that peck on the cheek. He didn't know what had come over him – maybe it was concussion after all – but he'd enjoyed it. And he really wanted to do it again, but was rather attached to all his limbs.

Turning back towards the kitchen, he noticed the laptop wasn't in quite the same position as he remembered. Running a hand idly across the keys, it lit up.

Okay. That most definitely wasn't how he'd left it. Text filled the screen, the cursor blinking under the last line …

"Hey."

She was awake, probably yawning, wiping the hair from her cheeks and wondering if her breath smelled, looking absolutely adorable.

That didn't stop him. "You read it."

"What?"

He turned, moving to one side at the same time so she could see the screen. "You read it."

Her chin came up in defiance. "Yes."

"Without asking?"

"Considering how much trouble I had last time getting to see a copy? Too damn right."

"Trouble you …" He closed his jaw with a snap. "You didn't say anything before."

"You should have known." She sat up, the lounger returning to an upright position, and ran her hands through her hair, trying to pull her fingers through the tangles.

"I'm not psychic!"

"It's nothing to do with being psychic. Even that Cosmo reporter read it before I did!"

"And when you finally got around to telling me, I got you a copy! I signed my life away to get it to you, too. And you pretended for days not to have even started it."

Her eyes glittered. "Did it hurt your feelings?"

"Yes!"

"Good! Now you know how I felt!" She got to her feet and picked up the plate he hadn't noticed from the floor, half a tomato and two slivers of lettuce stuck to its surface. She strode for the kitchen.

He had a twinge of guilt that she'd made do with salad for her supper the night before, but pushed it away, buried in an avalanche of feeling violated. Underneath it also occurred to him that they were arguing again, but this too he ignored as he chased after her. "Kate, it's not ready yet."

She'd tossed the remains of the salad into the bin, and now threw the plate into the sink with such force that it broke into three pieces, but the sudden heat of her anger plugged her ears.

"Oh, I could see that."

He bridled. "What do you mean?"

"Most of it's fine, but the last couple of chapters are … terrible."

"Terrible." The urge to kiss her had disappeared, replaced by one to strangle her. Instead he took a step back and blew a long, slow breath between pursed lips, something of a hypocritical smirk on his face. "Would you care to be more specific?"

"There's gaps as if you'd forgotten what you were going to write, some of it doesn't follow on properly, and some of your characters, well …"

"What about them?"

"I mean, Jameson Rook is self-aggrandising enough, but _Schlemming_?"

"What?" He could have sworn he'd changed all instances of that name after Alexis had commented on it.

"You couldn't just put him in the book, you had to make him an idiot as well?"

"I –"

She didn't let him finish. "And that end. That's it? How you're going to finish it?"

"I …" He stopped, bit his tongue. "Maybe."

"Rook walking away from her."

"So?"

Her eyes narrowed as her synapses made another connection. "You weren't coming back, were you?"

"I never said that. Those words didn't pass my lips. Not once."

"But. There's a huge, neon _but_ hanging there."

"I … didn't think you'd want me." _Back. Back_, his subconscious tried to make him add, but his heart wouldn't co-operate.

She took the words at face value. "So you walk off with into the sunset with Gina on your arm. Good plan."

"I had to finish _Naked Heat._"

"And I'm sure she helped keep you focused." The implication was clear.

"You have no idea of the creative flow required to write a book," he said, his hands on his hips. "You're not a writer."

"A writer?" she scoffed, taking a step forward. "A hack, more like."

He mirrored her action. "A …"

They both knew this wasn't really what they were arguing about, but as they closed the distance between them, invading each other's personal space, they didn't care.

"Hack." She made an odd noise of distaste in her throat. "Signing women's breasts."

"Perk of the job."

"A job you obviously love so much you kill off one successful character and plan to do the same with the next?"

His jaw set stubbornly. "I didn't kill Nikki Heat."

"You might as well have. I don't know what the female equivalent of emasculating is, but you managed it. Rook rescues her? Please."

"I told you it wasn't ready."

"Then you have him walking away from her. Like a coward." She shook her head. "Like a typical man."

They were barely an inch apart, and he could see her chest heaving as if she'd run a mile, fury pinking her cheeks, her grey/green glorious eyes flashing fire …

He kissed her. Mouth to mouth, tongue pressing for entrance.

She stood shocked for a moment, then her lips parted, her hands coming up to hold his head even as he weaved his fingers in her hair to pull her closer.

They might have been the only two people alive in the world, wrapped up in each other, the roll of the ocean the only sound as they …

She pulled back, breaking them apart, his lips still reaching for hers, finding nothing but empty air. He gazed into her eyes, trying to see what he should do next, some hint of whether he'd just taken them to the next level or destroyed them entirely.

She let go of his head and he felt lost.

"Kate …"

Someone coughed.

They both turned to the window, where Lyle Buckman was standing framed by the lightening sky, trying not to smile. "I knocked," he said. "But nobody heard." He leaned nonchalantly on the door jamb. "Am I interrupting something?"

"Yes," Kate said, taking a step away. "But it'll keep."

_It will?_ Rick stared at her, but she shook her head.

"Fine." Buckman obviously didn't believe it, but let it lie. "Nice bruises, by the way," he added, nodding towards Rick's face.

"Thanks. What are you doing here this time of the morning?" Rick asked, more than a little testily.

"We're going to raid Sigerson's place," the detective explained, stepping into the room.

Kate raised her eyebrows. "I'm surprised you didn't go in yesterday."

Buckman shrugged. "It took me a while to get Berenger to sign off on the warrant."

"Berenger?"

"Local judge. He can be a bit awkward at times, particularly as I interrupted him just as he was heading to bed, and I had to explain about the watch more than once." He grinned, the action taking years off him. "It wasn't until I pointed out that his daughter had been broken into three weeks ago that he saw the light."

"When are you going to serve it?"

Buckman checked his watch. "In a little under an hour. We should catch Sigerson before he wakes up, since he and some of his pals apparently sleep on the premises." He looked up. "Want to come?"

Kate's shoulders tensed. "Really?"

"You're observing, aren't you?" Somehow, knowing that he was on the verge of perhaps taking down the housebreakers who'd been a thorn in his side for months, he seemed more relaxed.

"I need to change." She glanced down at the t-shirt and leggings she'd put on after her quick shower halfway through reading _Naked Heat_. She held up a hand, fingers splayed. "Five minutes."

"I might even give you ten."

She smiled slightly and turned for the stairs.

"Kate …" Rick took a step forward, not wanting to leave things as they were.

She glanced over her shoulder. "We _will_ talk," she promised.

Now he felt about six. A memory of breaking his mother's favourite vase skittered across his mind, and her using those very same words. He'd worried for hours about what she had planned as punishment.

As he watched Kate head towards her bedroom, though, he considered it was worth it. Both times.

* * *

Waldo Sigerson's garage was set back from Highland down a dusty, litter strewn alley, half-hidden among newer, Hampton-friendly buildings. The owner was probably of the opinion that out of sight was out of mind, and that he could get away with pretty much anything as long as he didn't do it in the street and frighten the horses. So to speak.

Rick, sitting in the back seat of the Chevy, cricked his neck to try and see if anyone was home as Buckman skewed his car to block the entrance. "How many men have you got?" he asked.

"Two going in the back, four in the front." Buckman climbed from the driver's seat, Kate following quickly.

"Great." Rick opened the door.

"No," Kate said quickly, closing it just as fast and nearly trapping his fingers. "You stay put."

"What? No, Kate, I need to be –"

"You need to stay in the car."

Buckman was around the back, opening the trunk and taking out a pair of vests, one of which he tossed to her.

Rick wound the window down. "Kate –"

"No." She shrugged into the Kevlar jacket. "And if you try the puppy dog eyes on me I'll shoot you myself."

He pouted but she ignored him.

"Ready, boss." Two words, spoken softly over the radio on Buckman's hip.

He looked at Kate, and they both loped off towards the garage building without a word needing to be said.

Rick sat back, lips tight. He knew what to do during a tactical strike, had been through them before, wearing his very own specially-ordered vest that said WRITER. Although, to tell the truth, maybe that joke was beginning to get a little old. But so was being told to wait in the car.

He crossed his arms, uncrossed them, then moved forward to lean on the front seats. He could see movement in the morning dawn, but even as he watched it became still. He knew that meant they were ready to go inside, for Buckman to shout an identification, to break in the door, to …

Rick wasn't terribly religious, having broken most of the Commandments more than once, and enjoying it each time, but now he prayed to any god who might be listening that Kate didn't get hurt.

They hadn't really spoken on the drive, at least nothing beyond small talk. And that was the trouble. One kiss, just a small, insignificant, marvellous kiss, but he felt like his whole world was hanging by a thread. Or maybe teetering on a knife blade, where any wrong move would mean he lost his footing and he'd fall to be sliced in two.

His lips twitched at the mental image his writer's imagination insisted on throwing up, then flinched slightly as it continued to his lifeless corpse, split like a rotten melon from crotch to scalp, steaming intestines tossed every which way. He really had to stop watching late night horror movies.

But the whole point was that he felt he'd come to a crossroads. One way with Kate, one without, and maybe a couple more thrown in for good measure. Was she going to ignore it? Shout at him? Kill him? Any of those would be painful enough, but if she told him to never darken her door again, he didn't know if he'd survive.

What if it turned the other way, though? If she wanted this as much as he did? What then? What then, indeed?

He didn't know Kate's thoughts were revolving around exactly the same issue.

A kiss. A very palpable kiss. She could still feel it on her lips as she waited with Buckman, her gun in her hand, and it was distracting. _Why now?_ she was asking herself. _Why did you have to complicate things now? We were fine, getting along, making jokes … well, you were making jokes and I was trying not to stamp on your feet. Then you do this._

Buckman signalled the other officers with him to the side door to cover any avenues of escape.

_Why did you leave the computer on? Don't you know anything about saving energy? And going on about how you had to keep Naked Heat oh so secret, and there is it, on your desktop. Of course someone was going to read it._

She'd gone for a shower just after the aircraft hangar scene, and the sex that followed it, checking on him as she passed, just to make sure he was still breathing. She'd stood for maybe a good five minutes just watching him, fingering the salt tangles in her hair.

_And it's good, but I'm not going to tell you that. And sad. That end … damn you, Castle, why did you write it like that? And then when you kissed me all I wanted to do was …_

There was a pale beep from Buckman's radio: everyone was in place. He glanced at her, his eyebrows raised in question. She shook herself mentally and nodded back. Ready.

* * *

Voices. Buckman's, then someone else's from inside the garage, shouting abuse.

Rick was out of the car, itching to run forward but mindful of doing what Kate said, at least until they sorted things out.

Gunfire. Three shots, a single followed two in quick succession, then a yell of pain.

He couldn't help it. He ran down the alley, keeping close to the fence on the right hand side, stopping when he got a better view.

Lights were on in the garage, but all movement appeared to have stilled.

What had happened? Was she hurt? Had she had to fire at someone, and maybe got shot herself? What would he do if she died? Again his imagination supplied gruesome images, segueing into a funeral procession for a cop, all the other officers in dress uniform with prominent black armbands, then a coffin lowered into a gaping hole in the ground …

He sagged back against the fence, closing his eyes as he tried to breathe.

"I knew you couldn't do it."

His eyes slammed open, and he stared straight into the face of Kate Beckett. "I heard gunfire." He knew it sounded weak, even to his own ears.

She shook her head, but her lips were slightly curved. "One of the bad guys didn't want to come quietly. He's a little bit bloody."

Rick pushed himself upright. "Everyone else all right?"

_Yes, I am_, she almost assured him, but said, "Fine. Everyone's fine." She turned on her heel. "Come on."

Tagging along like a puppy who had suddenly realised he was going to be taken for a walk after all, Rick followed her into the garage.

Inside it was bigger than he had imagined, with three cars in various states of disembowelment, and another two that looked ready to roll off the production line. Along each of the walls were long benches covered in spare parts, as well as half a dozen laptops and other electronic equipment, while at the far end was what looked like storage, with a sort of mezzanine above it, containing the detritus of living that suggested this was where Sigerson and his cronies spent their off time.

Sigerson himself was bent over the hood of one of the cars, his face pushed into the metal by one of the police officers, none too gently from all appearances, hands secured by cuffs at the centre of his back. Two more of his gang were kneeling on the grease-dirty floor, covered by another pair of cops, likewise restrained, while a fourth was sitting on the stairs leading to the second level. His hand was clasped to his shoulder, a grimace of pain staining his features, but he too was being watched carefully.

Buckman was talking into his cellphone, ordering an ambulance and assorted clean-up.

"Well?" Kate said.

Rick turned to her. "Well … what?"

"Any of these yours?" She indicated the computers.

A lightbulb went on over his head. "Oh. Right."

"If not, if looks like there's a lot more stuff in the locker back there."

"So Buckman was right."

"What about?"

"He thought they might be keeping it, ready to sell on later. In fact, he hoped they were."

"Yes, well, nobody ever accused them of having brains."

Sigerson growled.

Rick stepped to one of the benches, studying the machines, one after the other. Then … "That's mine," he said, pointing to one of the computers.

Kate moved closer. "Are you sure?"

"Positive. That crack on the cover … I did it when I had writer's block."

"I didn't think you ever got that," she teased.

He grinned, glad at least that they were still sparring. "Slip of the tongue."

Buckman approached. "I've got people heading this way. It's going to take most of the day to log everything in, but I'd say it's pretty much all here."

"Including my laptop," Rick said, pointing.

"Aren't you the lucky one."

"Hey, and my rental." He'd just noticed one of the stripped cars looked familiar.

"I think you've lost your Collision Damage Waver," Kate murmured, but he ignored her. "Castle?"

He was running his hand over another of the car carcasses. "Kate, it's a VW."

Something sparked in her mind. "What?"

"A Volkswagen Beetle."

She stared at it, the shape of the hood ringing a bell loud and clear. "Buckman," she said quietly. "Althea Banks drove a Volkswagen, didn't she?"

"Yeah." He pulled his notebook from the back pocket of his pants. Flicking through it quickly, he came to the note he'd made of the licence plate. "Except they're missing," he added as he glanced at the car. He turned to Sigerson, motioning the cop holding him to let him up. "Where are the plates?"

"What?" Sigerson scowled at him, his cheek red from its prolonged contact with metal.

"The plates. For the VW."

"Don't know what you're talking about."

The cop holding Sigerson shook him, making his hair fly.

"Waldo, you really want to be co-operating right now," Buckman said on a sigh. "You're so deep in the shit right now you need as much help as you can get."

The big man glared, but eventually jerked his head towards the bench closest. "Over there."

Buckman strode across, Kate and Rick following. He sorted amongst various items, then pounced, a licence place in his hand. "Yes."

"That's it?" Rick asked.

"That's it."

"They're not in situ, though," Kate pointed out.

"No, but I'm betting once we get the VIN number they'll match up." Buckman turned to face Sigerson again. "Where did it come from?"

"Huh?"

"The Volkswagen," he repeated. "Where did it come from?"

"That?" Sigerson dismissed it with a toss of his head. "Damn thing was at the marina, the keys still in it. Just asking to be lifted."

"When?" Buckman wanted to know. "Come on. Do yourself a favour."

"Sunday," Sigerson responded grudgingly.

"What time?" This time it was Rick.

"Earlyish. About 8 am. I didn't make a note of it." Sigerson's tone was full of sarcasm. He glared at Rick. "And this is all your fault. I should have cracked your skull open with the pool cue when I had the chance instead of just uglying up your face."

"Take him out of here," Buckman ordered. "And add assault to the list of charges."

The police officer grinned widely before manhandling Sigerson through the door towards the waiting cars, but nobody watched him leave.

"Early Sunday," Rick said quietly. "So it could have been there all night."

"And we've been asking people for their alibis for Monday," Kate added.

"Asking Eric Mackintosh," he corrected.

"Is Mike Faraday sure about the time of death?" she asked Buckman.

He shrugged. "Sure as he can be. Trouble is, being in the sea tends to throw things out a bit, but … yeah, I trust his judgement."

"So early Monday afternoon."

"If that's the case, where was she between the time her car got stolen and she went into the sea?" Rick leaned back on the VW frame.

"And if she was alive, well and free, why didn't she report it missing?" Kate added.

"Damn it," Buckman whispered, running his hand across his short-cropped hair.


	15. Chapter 15

Kate didn't come home with him. Instead one of the black and whites dropped him back at the beach house while she went to the station with Buckman to complete paperwork.

Rick, not knowing what to do with himself, actually sat down at the computer and started to write. Not _Naked Heat_ – the ending wasn't something he thought he could face – but a short story about a man and a woman who were too stupid to realise what they felt for each other. He read it through twice, changed the names, then deleted it.

Anything not to think of what he was going to say when he saw her again.

Morning turned into afternoon, and the uneaten sandwich he'd made for his lunch around 1.00 pm went into the trash. Then he picked it out of the trash and put it into the food recycling bin, since Alexis's training was becoming ingrained.

He checked out his bruises in the mirror. He could see okay out of his eye again, but it was going to take time for the dark mottling to go away. Still, he didn't look too much like the Elephant Man so he went for a swim – after all, he hadn't eaten – and only winced once in a while as his ribs complained, then sat on the beach and tried to read one of the thick airport novels Gina had brought with her but left untouched.

He couldn't concentrate on the dire prose, the unrequited love and inevitable joyous reunion, so in the end he just lay back and stared at the blue sky, counting the few clouds that drifted past. Every so often he found himself touching his lips, remembering the feel of her there, how his hands had wrapped themselves in her hair, her body pressed against his …

"Ricky, you have to snap out of this," he said eventually, standing up and brushing sand from his shorts. "You don't even know if it's because she's her or whether she's just available." He walked back into the house, ignoring the admiring smile and _come hither _gaze of a young female jogger running along the shoreline.

When Kate did reappear, however, she wasn't alone. Buckman was with her.

"Hi," she said, dropping her car keys onto the side table. "Hey, you tidied up."

Rick shrugged, glancing around the living room and the attempts he'd made after he'd showered the salt from his skin. "Not much else to do."

"You could have written."

"Not sure I have anything to say."

She glanced sharply at him, then looked back at Buckman. "Make yourself comfortable."

Still, the detective looked at Rick. "Is this okay with you?" he asked.

"Don't you have anywhere better to be?" Rick asked in turn.

Buckman shook his head. "Not at the moment."

"Then sure." He pulled up a smile. "_Mi casa_ …"

"Thanks." Buckman slipped out of his jacket, laying it with precision on the back of one of the chairs.

"I thought I'd cook," Kate said, kicking off her shoes. "Since Lyle is making do with take-outs at the moment.

_Lyle? When did it become Lyle? _The smile on Rick's face froze as jealousy reared its ugly head, even as he tried to squash it back down.

"My wife's at the hospital mostly," Buckman said, undoing the top three buttons on his shirt and loosening his tie. "She complains about the boxes of leftovers in the fridge, but it's easier than doing something from scratch."

"Yeah." Now it was guilt in a tight ball in his belly, and Rick tried to make up for it. "Beer?"

"I'm driving but ... hell, why not? Sure, sounds good."

"I'll get it," Kate said quickly. "I was going to see what was in your cupboards anyway." She hurried to the kitchen.

"Be right back," Rick said, and followed her.

"Kate …"

She was opening doors, then looking in the fridge, moving things around. "What?"

"Before … when we kissed …"

Kate stood up, the refrigerator door between them like a shield. "I said we'll talk. Just not now." She managed a half smile. "Okay?"

"No."

The smile dropped. "Rick, this isn't the time or the place."

"Then when?"

"Later."

"Kate …"

"Please. Rick, please." She used his first name so he knew she was being serious. "We kissed. And I enjoyed it. But I need time to think."

"Time?" he hissed, conscious Buckman might be listening. "Kate, we've been dancing around this for months."

"Then a few more hours isn't going to make that much of a difference, is it?" She handed him two beers. "Now go and entertain our guest."

Something fluttered in his chest when she said _our_ guest, and he would have pressed the issue, but she swatted him away with her hands until he headed back to the living area.

"You've been thinking," Buckman said, nodding towards the wall. He was gazing at the various notes and pictures Rick had taped up, and rearranged somewhat by Kate so that some red lines seemed to go nowhere.

"I have been known to, once in a while."

"You really think Mackintosh killed his wife."

"Don't you?"

Buckman shrugged. "There's no evidence one way or the other."

"Except the dress."

"Ah. The famous Fabrigazi." He shook his head. "That's no proof of murder."

"It could be if he stripped Carly before dumping her body in the ocean," Rick pointed out, then realised he was still holding both bottles. "Oh. Here." He handed one across.

"Thanks." Buckman let the condensation wet his palm. "So you think he … what, sold the dress? Gave it away? It's pretty distinctive."

"Or kept it. And Eric gave it to Althea when he wanted her to look like his mother."

Buckman stared at him. "To Althea?"

"It's possible."

"Yeah, it's possible that I might win the lottery next month and book myself a trip on a space shuttle. It just isn't likely."

"You never know." Rick chuckled. "Cheers."

"Cheers."

They both took long pulls at their respective bottles.

Buckman sighed in gratitude. "Damn, I needed that. Too many of these, though, and I might have to get a cab home."

"I know a good driver," Rick said, hearing something clatter in the kitchen.

Buckman's eyes followed his line of sight, and his detective's brain put two and two together. "Did something happen between the two of you?" he asked. "Other than the kiss I interrupted, I mean."

A long time ago Rick had decided he didn't know how to get embarrassed – even ex-wife _numero uno_ turning up at the precinct and calling him 'kitten' hadn't managed to make him blush. But right now, this second, he knew he was a hair's breadth away from it. "Nothing," he lied, lifting his own beer again.

"Castle, I'm a cop. I know an atmosphere when I feel one." He chuckled. "Besides, I've been married for fifteen years. You get to have a nose for these things."

"I've been married twice," Rick admitted. "I have a mother, a daughter … and I still don't understand women."

"What's to understand? They're better than we are. And the trouble is they know it."

"Oh, you got that right."

They clinked bottles.

"So you and Detective Beckett … are you sure there's nothing?" Buckman glanced from side to side. "I'm discreet. You can tell me anything."

Rick had to smile. "I don't know. I thought there was, but … I don't know."

"Have you slept together?"

"No."

"Really?" Buckman did that slight head tilt and pursing of the lips that so many in the past had done when Rick had denied having sex with Kate, the movement that said they thought he was lying.

"You read it," Rick accused, realising the truth. "You've read _Heat Wave._"

Buckman laughed. "Not me. But my wife, Kelly … she's a fan of yours." He looked a little rueful. "She … ah … insisted on reading that chapter aloud. Wouldn't take no for an answer when I said I wasn't interested. And to tell the truth, she spends so much time waiting around the hospital, she reads all the trashy magazines, particularly with celebrity interviews, and when she heard I was, well, working with you, she gave me her opinion."

"Which was?"

"That you couldn't write something like that without having lived through it."

Rick shook his head and dropped into a chair. "I hate to disappoint your wife, but you need to tell her I've got plenty of experience in that department without it being first hand with Beckett."

"You'll break her heart."

"Sorry about that." Only Rick wasn't sure if he was talking about Buckman's wife or another woman entirely.

* * *

"Damn, that was better than pizza," Buckman said, leaning back in his chair.

Rick had set a table out on the decking, and they had eaten in the dying light of the day, and now stars were peppering the darkened sky.

"Thanks." Kate smiled.

"You know, you and my mother have something in common," Rick added, wiping a last hunk of bread around his plate so as not to miss anything tasty.

"Oh? You mean apart from being devastatingly attractive and amazingly intelligent?" Kate teased.

"Apart from that. You both cook too much food." He glanced down at the bowls still containing pasta, salad and sauce. "This amount of leftovers will keep me going for days."

"You could always give me a red cross parcel to take home," Buckman suggested.

"Done," Kate said.

It was nice to see Buckman relax, and Rick made a mental note to tell Jerry Reyes he was right – the detective was obviously under a lot of pressure, and stress can make a man prickly, to say the least. "So when do I get my laptop back?" he asked, going back to their previous conversation over dinner.

"It's evidence," Buckman said, only a little apologetically. "Why, is there something important on it?"

"You mean like his porn collection?" Kate asked.

Buckman laughed. "Pretty much."

Rick shook his head. "No, I use Esposito's computer at the 12th for that. But there is something I'd like to at least take a copy of."

"I don't know …"

"A copy. The original document stays on the hard drive."

Kate looked like she was trying not to smile. "I take it _Naked Heat _isn't anywhere near as finished as you said."

"No, it is. But .." His voice trailed off.

_He's got that damn puppy dog look on his face_, Kate thought. _And him a grown man. Even if it does suit him, _she added to herself in a fit of honesty_._ "You didn't save it."

"Oh, I saved it okay, just to the hard drive instead of the flash."

"That's not very sensible."

"No. But then I wasn't intending to find a body on the beach." He felt the genial atmosphere chill a degree or two, and jumped to his feet. "I'll make coffee."

"No, I can –" Kate started, but he put his hand on her shoulder.

"Uh uh. You made dinner, now it's my turn." He smiled at her, his fingers pressing ever so gently into the hollow of her collar bone before he hurried into the kitchen.

"You need to put that man out of his misery," Buckman advised.

"He's not miserable. He's one of the happiest men I've ever met." Kate sipped on the last of her red wine, wondering if the imprint of his hand on her shoulder was going to be there forever.

"Right." Buckman made a great show of turning to look at the view. "Nice out here," he said.

"That it is. How the other half live."

"Mmn."

"Castle said you're a local?"

"Born and raised. My dad was a fisherman, but he got …" Buckman stopped. "No. Not gonna get started on that. People have been known to throw things once I get going on the fact that the rich get richer and the poor leave town."

Kate laughed. "Hey, I understand. Due to unforeseen bomb damage I've been looking for a new place to live, and I've had a hell of a problem finding something I can afford that's bigger than a shoe box."

"Bomb damage?"

"Long story."

"When this is over, maybe you can tell me."

"Maybe."

"But I'd've thought Castle would help. You know, with the rent."

"I'm pretty sure I've told you we're not a couple."

"Oh, I know what you've told me." It was perfectly clear that he didn't believe her. "So what does he really think?" he asked, glancing into the lit room at the improvised murder wall.

"About the murder?"

"The whole enchilada."

"Please, no more food." She pushed her plate away and grinned. The way she was going, the number of meals Castle had forced on her, she was going to have to train for days just to begin to get back into shape.

"Okay, then just the murder."

"Which one?"

"Either. Both."

Rick came back outside, rubbing his hands. "Okay, we're percolating." He sat down. "And you can ask me yourself."

"Okay." Buckman sat up. "Carly Mackintosh. Let's start with her."

"Let's." Rick leaned his elbows on his knees, his fingers loose. "William Mackintosh killed her. Or tried to. One way or the other, he was guilty of wanting to murder his wife."

"That's not exactly a case breaker," Kate said.

"Maybe not, but more importantly than that, I don't think Carly drowned."

"We don't have proof of that."

"Not true. We have some." He ticked off the points on his fingers. "One: Enzo Fabrigazi swears the dress Althea was wearing was the original. The ME showed you the back, the detail, and the serial number on the label. That's confirmation."

"Maybe she wasn't wearing it when she went overboard," Kate pointed out. "We have no idea what time all this happened – she might have changed."

"Then why did Mackintosh insist she was still wearing it?"

"Maybe he kept it," Buckman suggested. "Like you said, he stripped it off her and threw her overboard naked."

Rick shook his head. "I know I suggested it, but it's creepy. And unlikely. Because if Carly's body had been found undressed that could have raised even more questions, questions William didn't want to answer. Which brings me to point number two: her body _wasn't_ found."

Kate shrugged. "Then by your own argument, maybe she didn't go overboard at all. She changed her clothes and left of her own free will."

"Why?"

"To be with one of her lovers."

He shook his head again. "No, that doesn't wash. Most of the money was hers – she could have divorced _him_, paid him off."

"Well, let's hold fire on that one for the moment, but okay. So she went overboard and her body was never found. It's not unusual."

"Around here it is. I checked with the Coastguard – only ten percent of all bodies off boats don't turn up."

"Castle's right," Buckman put in, enjoying watching them go backwards and forwards. "Most bodies that go overboard are found, and sooner rather than later."

"Ten percent is still quite a lot," Kate argued.

"Not really. There aren't that many in the first place."

"And the ten percent of that not many just happens to include Carly?" Rick gave a half laugh. "I don't believe in coincidences like that."

Kate put up her hand. "Castle, I'm just playing devil's advocate. For the record, I agree with you. William Mackintosh tried to kill his wife, and logic suggests Carly survived. But it doesn't explain why she didn't just turn up at the police station and get him arrested."

"Amnesia."

She gazed at him. "Really. For thirty years."

"Kate, we've seen it happen. A whole life lost, just like that." He snapped his fingers.

"Castle …"

"What if it happened to Carly? A bump to the head, drugged maybe …"

Kate sat forward slowly. "Like Althea."

"Exactly. And suddenly Carly's forgotten who she is."

She frowned. "I don't know …"

"Okay, it's far-fetched. But not impossible."

"And what about when she remembers?"

"Maybe she doesn't. Maybe her mind's a blank even now. Or she remembered but had made a new life and didn't want to go back to her old one."

"Convenient."

"Plausible."

"I'll hold fire on that one as well." She rested her elbows on her knees, thinking deeply. "If you're right, and Carly didn't die going overboard, then William Mackintosh is only guilty of attempted murder."

Rick gazed into her eyes. "Would a court see it like that? I mean, he tried, and he thought he'd succeeded."

"But she survived."

"Moot point. He's dead anyway so unless the DA wants to go to the extraordinary length of digging him up and prosecuting …"

"I doubt it."

"Although they did it with Oliver Cromwell."

Kate's expression was the same one she always had when he came out with something she understood, but considered had no relevance. "This isn't 17th century England, Castle."

"But I bet you'd look good in one of those ruffs, wearing lots of lace and pearls."

"Focus."

He smirked. "Fine. But just so you know … I'll be keeping that mental image until later."

"Too much information."

Buckman laughed. "Are you two always like this?"

"Pretty much," Rick admitted.

"It's interesting. Does it work?"

"What, tossing ideas around?"

"Ideas, jokes, winding each other up …" Buckman elaborated.

"It has up to now."

Kate stared at Rick, but he didn't say anything else.

"Okay," Buckman said, not aware of the sub-text. "So what about Althea? Where does she come into all this?"

"She's Carly's daughter," Rick said.

There was silence as they all digested what he'd said.

"Are you being serious?" Kate asked eventually.

Rick shrugged. "No, I wasn't, but … it fits."

Buckman was nodding his head. "I can't say it didn't occur to me. It would explain the dress, even the watch, and how they got from Carly to Althea, but there's no proof. Again."

"I don't need proof to believe I'm right."

"So what's your take? Althea knows, or finds out who her brother is, and then ... what?" Kate wanted to know. "She tries to shake Eric down?"

"Maybe." He leaned forward. "Although I do have a theory."

She rested her chin in her hand. "Why am I not surprised."

"You won't like it."

"Probably not. But go ahead."

Rick stood up, needing to pace to be able to spin his version properly. "My mother said Carly was very unhappy, which was why she took lovers. And if my mother knew, then Carly probably didn't do too much to hide it. Maybe she even flaunted it in front of her husband. And if I was a betting man – which I am – I'd lay money on William being more than a little violent."

"Why?" Kate demanded, crossing her arms.

"No idea. It just fits the story better," Rick admitted. "And remember, according to my mother William wasn't the nicest of men."

"Then why didn't she report it? Get him arrested for assault?"

"Not the done thing back then."

"Or now," Buckman added. "It's not just women with no money who put up with it, think it's not going to happen again because he apologised. There's more of it than we know going on behind expensive drapes."

"And Carly was a MacGregor," Rick went on. "Any divorce was going to drag their name through deep and stinking mud, and don't forget her father was still alive at that point. There's no way he would have allowed that kind of publicity." His eyes narrowed. "But maybe, finally, she'd had enough. Perhaps she'd met someone who'd persuaded her she was better than that, and that night, after the party, she told William to go."

Kate found herself nodding. "And if he was violent, he might just take it out on her."

"He knocks her around, only it turns him on and he rapes her."

Her eyes widened. "He rapes her? Where did that come from?"

"Shh, it's my story. And you'll see."

"Castle, they were husband and wife."

He looked at her under his eyebrows. "If there's one thing you've taught me, it's that if it isn't consensual then it's rape."

She blushed slightly. "Point taken."

"Anyway, Eric sees everything. Sees his parents arguing. He doesn't understand why his mother wants a divorce – he's only eight – but he _saw. _The rape, what he thought was the murder, the disposal of the body. Maybe he's hiding in a closet, or the door isn't as closed as his father thinks, but he's a witness. William either doesn't know or he doesn't care. Maybe he thinks his son's only a boy, he won't know what he's seen. Back then kids weren't quite as knowing as they are now, so maybe William's right. But somewhere in the back of his mind, Eric knows exactly what happened."

Kate had to interrupt. "Castle, this is just fantasy."

"And how often have we found that the truth is stranger than we ever imagined?" Rick asked in turn.

"I want to hear more," Buckman put in.

She glanced at him, then nodded.

Rick's lips tilted briefly, then he was serious again, pacing backwards and forwards across the decking. "Okay. So, maybe we're right, and William keeps the Fabrigazi out of some twisted sense of guilt, or maybe he just wanted a trophy, but he hides it." He paused for a moment. "What Eric witnessed festers, day by day, getting more poisonous with each passing year. He might not think about it, but it shows up in his dreams." He began to use his hands to gesture. "Then his father dies. Subconsciously he thinks he's free of it, starts to live life to the very expensive full. Until the thirtieth anniversary comes up, and that reporter calls. It all comes flooding back, worse than ever. And he starts to believe the only way to exorcise it is to recreate it."

"Go on," Kate said, caught up in his imagination.

"Maybe it took this long to find someone who looked like his mother, or perhaps the plan leapt fully formed into his head when he caught sight of Althea Blake, purely by accident at the coffee shop, or on the beach, or just walking along the street. However it happened, he set things in motion." Rick could see it in his mind's eye. "He makes friends, invites her onto the yacht, says he is fascinated by the way she reminds him so much of how his mother used to look. Offers her some wine ..." The rest of the images played out quickly, and he tried to ignore the worse of it. "When she's unconscious he dyes her hair, puts her in his mother's dress, assaults her, then drags her out on deck and pushes her overboard."

"Castle, someone would have noticed."

"Not really. The uber rich know each other, and ignore anything that might upset their little world. Besides, by then it was the early hours of the morning, pitch black, only the running lights illuminating anything ... and who'd be watching?"

"Wow," Buckman breathed in stunned admiration. "No wonder you're successful. That's one hell of a tale you've concocted."

"Do you see any flaws in it?" Rick asked.

"Mostly around how I'd hate to be your subconscious."

"Yeah, me too sometimes," the author admitted.

"But there's also the problem about total lack of any kind of evidence." He shuddered. "And you're suggesting he raped his own sister."

"Half sister," Rick corrected. "There's too long a time gap between Carly's supposed death and Althea's birth for them to be full blood."

"You think that makes it any better?"

"He probably didn't rationalise it that way. To him Althea wasn't a person – she was a ghost, and she needed to be exorcised."

"That's why you think William raped Carly, because of the evidence of sexual activity on Althea," Kate said slowly.

Rick nodded. "The ME said with the benzodiazepine she was likely to be semi-conscious at best, so again ... hardly consensual."

"And incestuous." Buckman wiped his hand over his face as if trying to clean the uncomfortable feeling from it Rick's tale had engendered.

"We don't know she was his sister, half or otherwise," Kate said, having been thinking hard. Now she stood up and went inside, coming back a moment later with her cellphone. "But somebody else might." She pressed speed dial. "It's not that late. He should still be up."

"Who?" Rick asked.

She held up a finger as someone answered. "Ryan. It's Beckett."

"Don't you have a social life?" the detective complained.

"No."

"Some of us do. Jenny's parents are here for dinner."

"Sorry."

"No, you're not."

"You're right. So, what do you have?"

"Hang on." There was a pause, his muffled voice apologising for the interruption, then noises that suggested he was going to find somewhere quieter to talk.

"What did you ask him to do?" Rick wanted to know.

"To look into Althea's background a bit deeper."

He smiled at her, and she felt something stir in the base of her belly at the amount of pride in his eyes.

"O-kay." Ryan was back. "Esposito and me have been working hard while you've been sunbathing, and we've got some background on Althea Banks."

"I haven't been sunbathing. I've been arresting bad guys."

"Anyone we know?"

"No." She moved to stand at the edge of the decking, staring at the lights of yachts riding at anchor out on the water. "Tell me."

There was the rustling sound of notebook pages being turned. "Althea Banks. I'll spare you the boring details you already know, and just say her parents were Chloe and Joshua Banks. They died in a car crash ten months ago. No siblings. Ex-husband is one Daniel Roscoe – looks like she went back to her maiden name, which isn't surprising considering Daniel's reputation."

"Is he the type to murder?"

"Along with not being able to keep it in his pants for more than a day, he's a bit too free with his fists. But don't go putting him in the frame – he's been serving thirty days for D&D for the last two weeks."

"Pity." Kate could see the other two out of the corner of her eye, signalling her to tell them what Ryan was saying, but she ignored them. "Anything else?"

"Not really. She was a straight A student, no parking tickets, paid her taxes on time. The only blot on her horizon was the fact that her credit cards were pretty much maxed out, probably to pay for the trip up there."

"Probably." She turned around, and her gaze fell on the photo of Carly in the Fabrigazi that was taped to the wall inside. "What about her parents?"

"Her parents?"

She knew without looking that Rick's face was dissolving into that smug smile of his, but right now she didn't care. "We've been talking about the possibility that Althea was Carly's daughter. That Carly didn't die thirty years ago."

There was silence at the end of the phone, then … "You too, huh?"

Ryan's amused tone was too much. She laughed, startling Buckman and Castle. "Us too," she confirmed, thumbing the speaker button with her thumb. "Do you have anything?" She put the phone on the table, the sound loud enough for them all to hear.

"As it happens, yes." They could visualise him licking the end of his pencil. "Joshua Banks, no problem. A bit of a tearaway as a kid, nothing too major, cleaned up his act and went to college, became a chef. Worked for a catering company specialising in parties until he moved to Brooklyn and set up his own modest business. When he died he left a few debts, but his life insurance took care of them."

"And Chloe?" Kate urged, the two names jumping over themselves in her mind: _Carly … Chloe … Carly … Chloe …_

"Well, that's where the fun starts." His Irish blue eyes were probably sparkling. "There's no record of any marriage. Joshua was an only child, lost his parents when he was young, so when he turns up in Brooklyn with a wife nobody seemed to have asked any questions. In any paperwork there's a Social Security number quoted, but that's for a Chloe Wadkins who died aged seven months. Oddly enough, according to a family friend, Wadkins was Chloe Banks' maiden name."

"Didn't anyone pick up on this?"

Ryan more than likely shrugged. "She never applied for anything. She worked in her husband's company but didn't draw a salary, she didn't drive so never applied for a licence, her credit cards were in her husband's name … if there wasn't a birth record for Althea I'd say Chloe Banks never existed."

Rick stepped closer. "Ryan, Joshua Banks … where did he come from?"

"Ah. Keeping the best 'til last. He was born and bred in East Hampton. He worked for the Elite Catering Company in the '70s. Now, they were sold a few years back, but Esposito talked to the old owner, and he remembers catering a number of Mackintosh parties. Carly used to ask for them specially."

The smug look on Rick's face was now one of triumph.

Kate withheld the sigh. "Okay. Thanks. And keep digging."

"Will do."

"But … just one thing. Why didn't you say all this first?"

Ryan chuckled. "We thought you'd tell us we were wasting tax payers dollars."

"Well, I don't think you are. Not this time," she added, then ended the call.

"I knew it," Rick said, rubbing his hands together.

"It's still just conjecture." Kate stood with her hands on her hips. "Everything about this case is just shadows and moonbeams." She saw his fingers twitch. "And don't even think about writing that down."

"Sorry."

"Whatever happened with Carly Mackintosh, we still have a dead body in the morgue. And pet theories aside, we've no evidence."

"Then we're going to have to fall back on good old-fashioned police work," Buckman said. "We'll get the guy, don't you worry about that."

Kate didn't look convinced.

* * *

They chatted for an hour or so more over the coffee Rick finally brought outside, mostly going over the same theories, then Buckman stood up.

"God, I'm tired," he said.

"Well, you could sleep here. The lounger's pretty comfortable," Rick offered, although privately considered it would be nowhere near as pretty a sight in the morning as seeing Kate cuddled in it.

"No. I'll be heading home. My wife'll be back, and … better go." He stood up, stretched. "I'm getting old," he complained mildly as he walked into the house. "I used to go on all night stake-outs, then work a full eight hour shift and still go out with the boys for a brew."

_Writing all day, partying all night then writing again_ … Rick sympathised, following him. "I … uh … how's your daughter?"

Buckman looked surprised. "She's good. Better," he corrected himself, then let the weariness show on his face. "She's sick, but I'm hoping for the best."

"I have a daughter," Rick said. "She's sixteen now, but I remember every little ache, pain and sniffle she's ever had. I always thought it was pneumonia, or food poisoning ... I'd hate to be in the position of having it be something really serious. I don't think I could cope."

"You'd be surprised." Buckman picked up his jacket. "At first you think your world's coming to an end, but after a while the hospital becomes like a second home, and you adjust."

"If there's anything she needs, a specialist ..."

The detective had to smile. "No. She has everything she needs. I've got pretty good medical, and it's covering the costs at the moment. And the hospital is a good one. But thanks anyway."

"Just call if it changes."

"I will." Buckman held out his hand. "Thanks for the dinner."

They shook.

"Don't thank me," Rick said, smiling. "Kate cooked."

The woman herself waved away the compliment. "It was fun. Do you know he has every gadget imaginable in that kitchen? And some I'd have sworn were sex aids."

Buckman laughed. "Well, thanks anyway. And if I don't see you before you leave, have a safe trip back and don't drive too fast." He opened the front door, the breeze suddenly making itself know through the house. "See you."

"Bye." Rick watched him walk to his car, wave once, then climb in and drive away. He closed the door, turning to lean on it as he gazed at Kate. "Leave?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I have to get back to work."

"We haven't arrested Eric yet."

"And we probably won't." Kate strode through the house and onto the decking, collecting plates and the remains of the food. "Do you want me to clingfilm this?"

"Stop it." He took the bowls from her hands and put them firmly back on the table. "You can't leave. I don't want you to leave."

"Castle, this was only ever meant to be a short visit. A few days. Make sure you weren't liable to be the victim of a gross miscarriage of justice, then go home. Well, you're not in jail, despite your best efforts, which means I can get back to some real work."

"Real work. What about Althea?"

"Buckman will find the killer, whether it's Eric or someone else entirely we haven't even thought of." She smiled slightly, just a twist of her mouth. "Maybe it was the guy at the motel. You said you thought he reminded you of Norman Bates."

"And us?"

"Us?" she echoed.

"Kate, we kissed." He could still taste her.

"And that's all it was, just a kiss."

"Kate ..."

"Let's see if we can't bring Althea's killer to justice before I leave, okay?"

"And what about us?"

"One thing at a time." She shook her head. "Castle, it's too late to be talking about this. I need to get some sleep."

"No," he said firmly. "I'm not going back there. I'm not going back to playing games."

"It's not a game. And maybe I'm not ready."

He stared at her, trying to figure her out. "Why didn't you come with me when I asked? We could have avoided all of this ... crap."

"Castle, I'm not going to argue about this. I'm going to bed." She turned for the stairs, but his hand was on her arm. "Let go."

"Kate ... stop. I..." The words he wanted to use seemed to fall over themselves in his mouth, and nothing came out. "I want ..."

She'd had enough. "What? What do you want, Castle? Because for the life of me I don't know. I'm not like Kyra, or Meredith, or – God help us – Gina. And if all you want is a one night stand, you'll have to find it somewhere else."

"I want you." There. He'd said it. Three little words, but oh so difficult to get out into the open.

"And what if I don't want you?"

He blinked. "Don't you?"

She relented a little. "Maybe I do, but that's not the point. I get to choose, Castle. I decide, not you. And you can't push me."

"Oh, I know that." He remembered trying to find out about her mother's murder, telling her, finally knowing he'd gone too far, that she was never going to speak to him again, and the aching hole it had left in his heart. He swallowed, then took a step back. "I'm sorry. I guess I am pushing."

"We'll talk in the morning." She started up the stairs.

"You're scared," he said quietly, but knew she'd heard. "You don't need to be."

"I'm not scared, Castle. I'm tired. Goodnight." She continued walking.

"Wait," he called, just to say something else, to keep her attention a little while longer. "Why didn't you call Esposito?"

She laughed lightly. "What, and interrupt him and Lanie?" She disappeared around the corner.

Rick closed his mouth audibly. Esposito and the redoubtable ME? Where had that come from? And more importantly, what trouble could he make from it? _Later_, he told himself. _When this is all done_.

He waited until he heard her bedroom door close, then wandered back through the house and out onto the patio. The breeze had chilled a little, promising rain that would probably pass them by, but he stepped down onto the beach, feeling it crunch and shift beneath his feet. He walked towards the water's edge, ending up at about the point where he'd found Althea's body.

God, but it seemed half a lifetime ago, not just a few days. So much had happened, and yet he felt like he was mired in quicksand. He was so close to touching something special, and he knew if he could only reach out that little bit further he might be able to grasp it to his chest. Except maybe it would all dissolve into ... what was it she said? Shadows and moonbeams. Very poetic.

He had to smile. Maybe he was an influence on her after all, good or bad.

He bent down to pick up one of the small stones that littered the shoreline, wincing as his ribs caught. Tossing it in his palm a couple of times, he finally held it between two fingers and a thumb, flat side down. Turning sideways to the water, he flicked his wrist, sending it out across the ocean. It hit the surface, bounced once, twice, three times before catching a ripple and tumbling, sinking to the bottom.

That's how he felt, he realised. Not in quicksand, but just bouncing along the surface, touching people's lives but not being part of them, until something made him twist and fall. And maybe that something was Kate.

He stared at the mooring lights, glittering across the water. The trouble was, Kate was right too. One thing at a time. And he knew what he had to do.

* * *

**AN:** Long, wordy chapter, but there wasn't really a suitable place to break it. I hope you're still sticking with it, and I promise a little more action in the next chapter or two. And more on the relationship ... Jane


	16. Chapter 16

"Where have you been?" Kate asked as Rick slapped two strips of brightly coloured paper down on the table in front of her.

She'd woken up at a little past eight, something of a long lay in for her, and listened to the house. Nobody was stirring, and by nobody she meant Castle. Maybe he was sitting outside her room, waiting for her. Waiting to pounce.

She knew she shouldn't have told him to wait – it wasn't fair, and the look on his face had been enough to fan the flames of guilt, and perhaps she had taken out those feelings by mentioning Esposito and Lanie in the same breath, knowing he was likely to make some remark when he saw them next. And it wasn't even their fault.

Although, if she was perfectly honest, Lanie had been pushing Castle her way for a long time. And Esposito wasn't above suggesting she had the hots for the writer, so maybe it was justified. _Right_, her inner cop said, hitting her on the head with his metaphorical night stick. _You keep telling yourself that._

She'd sighed and got up, throwing on enough clothes to be decent, slightly perturbed at what he was going to say. She knew she was putting him off, because if she didn't she was going to give in to her impulses to kiss him again, and who knew where that would lead? Trouble was, she knew well enough. And she wasn't sure she could be just another notch on his bedpost.

So she'd straightened her shoulders, pushed her hair back from her face, and walked downstairs.

He wasn't there. Not in the kitchen, or outside, or anywhere.

_Fine_, she thought to herself peevishly. _Be like that._ Then she noticed her car keys were gone. Her eyes narrowed. _Grand theft auto. Just wait 'til you get back, Castle._

And now here he was, standing behind her as she munched on a bowl of dry cereal, a note in his handwriting lying on the table in front of her.

"I don't suppose it occurred to you?" she went on, holding up the piece of paper.

"What?"

She twisted it enough so he could see it read _Buy more milk_. "Well?"

"Oh. No. Sorry."

"So what were you doing?" she asked. "In my car, I might add."

"My rental's still in the evidence lock-up," he pointed out. "I knew you wouldn't mind."

"Hmmn."

"Anyway, I needed transport."

"What for?"

"Buying these." He picked up what were evidently tickets of some form or other. "To the event of the season." She didn't answer, just chewed. "Kate?"

She swallowed carefully and licked fragments of sweet rice powder from her lips before saying, "It's killing you, isn't it? Me not asking."

"I'll get over it." He waved the tickets. "These are for the Maidstone Club Gala Day. And when is this marvellous affair, I hear you ask?" At her raised eyebrow he went on swiftly, "Okay, I don't hear you ask, but it's today. Starting in ..." He checked the clock. "... a little under four hours."

"And you think I'd be interested ... why?"

He dropped his head, and when he looked up again she could swear the flash of sadness she'd thought she'd glimpsed was just a trick of the light, nothing more. "Because if this is your last night here, you might as well enjoy it. Besides, they might have asked me to leave, but that doesn't mean I can't buy a ticket." He waved them again. "Two, in fact. I had to get the treasurer out of bed." His expression took on a very smug aspect.

Of course. The incident with the champagne, the 7th tee and a certain club official's daughter. "Which you thoroughly enjoyed."

"Thoroughly."

"Those tickets … expensive?"

"Hideously."

"Good."

He sighed and stood up. "Well, if you don't want to come, I'm sure I can find some other beautiful young woman to accompany me."

"I'm sure you can."

"By the way, did you see the other note?" Rick asked, blatantly changing the subject by walking to the wall and leaning on it amongst the post-its and scraps of paper.

"I saw it." She glanced up, wondering if he practised the nonchalant posture. She pointed at it with her spoon. "Althea."

That was it, all that was on the large yellow sheet torn from a legal pad, just the one word: _Althea._

He plucked it from the tape holding it in place. "My mother rang late last night. Well, actually early this morning." He shook his head. "Sometimes I wonder if she's on the same timeframe as everyone else."

Kate rolled her eyes. She wasn't really in the mood for digressions. "Castle."

"Right." He sat down opposite her, placing the page on the table between them. "I forgave her, though."

"You know I've got a gun in my purse."

Something about her threatening him made him feel strangely better. "She remembered something. Carly Mackintosh's mother's name ... was Althea."

Kate froze, her spoon half way to her mouth. Slowly she lowered it to her bowl. "How come we didn't know that?"

"Same thing I asked. According to my mother, Niall McGregor, Carly's father, was so devastated when his young wife died in childbirth he didn't allow her name to be spoken. It was like she'd never existed to break his heart."

"Except it wouldn't take much for Carly to find out," Kate finished slowly.

"A nanny, or maybe just her birth certificate ... whatever it was, I'd say this was proof Carly and Chloe were the same person, and Althea was Eric's half-sister."

She gazed at him for so long he wondered if he'd got it wrong. Then she sighed. "You're right. Althea isn't a common name, and the coincidence would be just too huge."

"And if we're right about this, then I think we're right about Eric killing her."

Kate nodded. "That's what this is about?" She tapped the tickets. "Cornering the animal in his den?"

"I just thought I'd go and make his reacquaintance."

"Right."

He had to smile at the dryness in her tone. "Okay. I thought I might go poke the tiger."

"You do that, you're liable to get your arm bitten off."

"Then you'd better come along and wield the whip and chair."

"I might just encourage him."

"Kate, Kate, you wouldn't be so cruel."

"Try me." She smiled, but she knew the banter wasn't real, just a cover for what they weren't saying. And the truth was, he hadn't asked, hadn't pushed for an answer to what was going on between them, so she wasn't going to offer.

"So?"

"So what?"

"Are you coming with me?"

She sat back and pushed the bowl of nut loops away. "I suppose I could. Just to make sure you stay out of trouble."

His lips twitched. "It does seem to follow me around, so maybe you should."

"What time does it start?"

"1.00 pm. It's an all day thing. Smart/casual." He looked her up and down. "Have you got anything that'll do?"

Standing up, she pulled her t-shirt down. "I'm sure I have," she said firmly, heading for the stairs.

"Right," he murmured, smiling, then chuckled as he followed her.

* * *

"Damn it."

He watched her going through the small case she'd brought with her, cursing quietly, and something in him ached as he realised she hadn't unpacked everything. She'd never planned on staying long, he knew that, but this subconscious display made him want to shake her. "Need some help?" he asked as she took a breath.

"No." She tossed a top aside then held up a slightly crumpled shirt. "Do you own such a thing as an iron?" she wanted to know, glancing at him standing in the doorway.

"Somewhere. But I tend to send out my laundry."

"Figures." She eyed the garment. "If I hang it in the bathroom for a while, let the steam get to it ..."

"Does that really work?" he asked, interested despite himself.

"Mmn." She wasn't really listening.

"Only I thought it was an old wives tale."

"Probably." She was still preoccupied.

"Okay." He crossed the room and took the shirt from her hands, dropping it to the floor.

"Castle ..."

"This is crazy. Just put on anything and come with me."

"Castle ..." Kate reached down to pick up the top, but he stopped her.

"No. There's a dozen good clothes ships in town – we'll find something for you to wear in one of them."

Her eyes widened then narrowed. "Why?"

"Because I don't want you showing me up."

"Me showing ..." She couldn't speak for a moment. "You think I'd –"

"Will you stop arguing with me for once in your life?" He grinned. "Kate. Get your purse. We're going shopping."

* * *

She wouldn't let him see what she finally allowed him to put on his account, which was something of a worry. He knew she wasn't exactly rolling in money, but he also knew her taste tended towards the practical rather than the fancy. The woman slept in a t-shirt and leggings, for heaven's sake. He idly wondered if Demming had been treated to that sight, but pushed the errant thought away, and went back to pondering the enigma that was Katherine Beckett. An enigma with onion layers. And possibly questionable taste in men. And clothes.

Still, if it was anything like that little grey number she'd worn to the _Heat Wave_ book launch, he'd be happy. Just so long as she hadn't gone for something like that pink dress with ruffles, the one from the reading.

"Dear God, please, no," he muttered as he slid their purchases into the trunk of her car.

"What?" she asked, opening the driver's door.

"Nothing," he insisted, smiling and slamming the trunk closed.

* * *

Rick checked his hair for the last time in the mirror, running his fingers through the bang that insisted on falling across his forehead in an attempt to make it behave, only to see it drop back. Ah well. It made him look younger, anyway. And there was little he could do about the lurid bruises around his eye since he drew the line at wearing makeup. Mostly. After all, a little moisturiser was a good thing, but foundation was a step too far.

Kate had gone to shower and make herself presentable, giving him more than enough time to decide not to say anything to her. She didn't want to talk about their kiss, so he wasn't going to either. At least she hadn't exactly told him to go take a running jump – if she'd done that he wasn't sure how he would have handled it. And if he didn't ask, then he could maybe pretend the answer was going to be yes.

He looked at his watch. They were going to be fashionably late as it was, but if they delayed much longer …

"Kate!" he shouted. "It's time to go!"

"I'm not deaf."

He span on his heel to see her halfway down the stairs.

She was wearing a deep red sundress, the colour accentuating her growing tan and making her eyes seem even greener. Strappy heeled sandals of the same hue and a clutch purse completed the ensemble.

He swallowed. "Glad to see my credit card was put to good use." A warm smile lifted his lips. "It suits you." In point of fact she looked sumptuous. He put his head on one side, studying the way the fabric slipped over her hips. "Where's your gun?"

She lifted the purse. "In here." She felt herself blush slightly at his scrutiny. "And I'll pay you back."

"You don't have to."

"I want to."

"Kate –"

"You can't keep buying me things."

"Why not? I like it."

She narrowed her eyes at him, but forbore to comment. Instead she said, "Nice suit."

"What, this old thing?" Rick turned from side to side. "Just an Armani I happened to have hanging in the wardrobe."

"And it didn't get stolen?"

"Well, no, okay, hanging in the wardrobe from this morning, but it looks okay." He smoothed the fabric down his arms.

"Armani. How much did that cost?"

"Not really an issue."

"Not for you, no." Kate picked up her car keys, but Rick plucked them from her fingers. "Castle …"

"No. I've arranged transport."

"I want to drive."

"And I said no. Besides, I'd like to see you drunk one time. Especially if it's the last time."

She stared at him, but he was busy studying his reflection in the mirror. "You know, being enigmatic doesn't suit you," she said.

"I wasn't. Just stating the facts, ma'am." He smiled at her over his shoulder, successfully keeping any kind of rebuke out of his tone. "You won't talk about us, so I'm guessing there _is_ no 'us'. Which would make it awkward for me to keep working with you, so this is probably goodbye."

Her jaw dropped as he made it sound so … ordinary. "Is that what you want?" she finally managed to say.

"Well, since you won't talk about it, you'll probably never know." The mermaid played a tattoo on the front door. "Our ride."

"It's not that cab, is it?"

Rick chuckled. "Same driver, different car."

* * *

The black limo slipped quietly along the roads, heading for the Maidstone Club.

Inside, Jerry (who had found a peaked cap and blazer from somewhere) had taken one look at his two passengers and raised the partition between them so they could talk in peace. Except they sat silently, staring out of the windows.

Until, as they approached the Club, Kate couldn't take it any more. She twisted in her seat to glare at Castle. "Okay. What the hell were you talking about?"

He raised an eyebrow at her. "What?"

She hated him for making her say it, but she had to. "You intimated you weren't coming back to the precinct."

"Good word. Intimated."

She bit the inside of her lip, trying hard to control her anger. Mind, he was already black and blue from the beating in the bar, so one more bruise wasn't going to show. She hit him.

"Ow!" he exclaimed, rubbing his arm.

"Don't do that," she said.

"You hit me!"

"I mean trying to derail the conversation," she hissed, even though their driver couldn't hear a word.

"What's to derail?" He looked straight in her eyes. "Kate, for whatever reason, you don't want a relationship with me." Holding up a hand to forestall her objections – if there were going to be any – he went on quickly, "And the truth is I wasn't asking you to marry me. I just …" At this point his writer's brain decided to go on strike.

"Just what, Castle?"

He took a deep breath and said what was on his mind. "I wanted us to try."

"Wanted." _Past tense. Oh God_.

"Look, I know I've messed this up. And I'm sorry." His face was about as serious as she'd ever seen it. "But I … Kate, we've been dancing around each other so long, it was becoming habit. And when you went off with Demming –"

"I didn't go off with him," she said quietly.

"I was jealous. And Gina was around."

"The ex-wife from hell."

He had to smile slightly. "Pretty much. But we had some good times, too, otherwise I'd never have asked her to marry me. And I thought, maybe I could rekindle them." He sat back and stared into nothing. "I shouldn't have bothered. There weren't even embers."

"And … us?"

Rick pulled himself together. "Is there an 'us'?"

"I …" She had to be truthful. Tell the truth and shame the devil, as her old granny used to say. "I don't know. I honestly don't know if I can have someone in my life right now."

"You had Demming."

"And look how that turned out." She shook her head. "Anyway, you're the one talking about leaving."

"I just think maybe it's for the best."

"Is that what you want?" She waited a moment. "Well? Is it?"

They hadn't even noticed the car draw up, but the door opening interrupted them, and Jerry leaned down from outside.

"Boss? We're here."

"Right. Okay." Rick nodded, pulling on his professional persona. "Show time."

For a moment Kate just stared. She'd seen it before, this smoothness he projected, being a possible friend to every fan, a potential lover to every woman, but this time it was like watching a man buckle on armour. "Yes," she said quietly. "It's time."


	17. Chapter 17

The Gala Day was the one time of year that families got to enjoy the Maidstone Club, although any children were catered for in an area of their own to the rear of the building, well away from their parents and the serious business of networking, flirting and drinking, although not necessarily in that order.

As the weather was good – not unusual in an East Hampton summer – a huge marquee had been erected in the grounds, and members only had to go inside to freshen up. Still, some people were gathered on the veranda, sipping iced tea and whisky, while others were on the terrace watching the annual Club tennis championship unfold. Still more were playing golf, and complaining bitterly about the disruption to their usual game by people inconsiderately talking and playing music.

As Rick and Kate climbed the steps towards the bar, several other guests stared at the bruises on his face, but none of them commented, merely turning back to their conversations. As he'd said, the rich only see what they want to see – anything more is dealt with by someone else.

Kate was very aware of Rick's hand in the centre of her back, guiding her through the crowd, and she told herself she should have gone with the other dress, the more conservative of the two she'd really liked. The one she was wearing had straps that went over the shoulders as normal, then crossed above her shoulder blades before reattaching to the low back, leaving a fair amount of flesh exposed.

Which wouldn't have normally been a problem, except that the tips of Rick's fingers were touching her naked skin.

She chided herself for caring, then again as she realised she'd leaned back into his palm. For a moment she was sure he stroked down her spine, then his voice murmured in her ear.

"Is that him?"

As a passion killer, it was very effective. "Mackintosh?"

"By the balustrade. With the blonde."

She turned, making it look casual. "That's him."

"He hasn't changed much. Although I see what you mean about the hair." Rick unconsciously stroked his own thick locks with his free hand.

Kate tried not to smile. "I don't know the woman with him, though."

"Me neither."

They both studied her. The woman was tall, the same height as Eric Mackintosh (although four inches of that were spiked heels) and stick thin. She stood like a model, Rick considered, hipbone pushed out, which was perhaps where he'd seen her before. Something about her face reminded him of someone, but he couldn't pin it down, and that irritated him, like an itch he couldn't quite reach.

Her body, however, was all her own. Not the lean musculature of Kate, this was bordering on the anorexic, and he just knew she was a follower of the 'a woman can never be too rich or too thin' adage. Which was crazy. And uncomfortable – making love to her would be like trying to get passionate with a washboard.

He had to admit the dress – a vision of absolutely white silk with tiny flowers embroidered around the neck, interspersed with flecks of diamante – hung beautifully, but for once he didn't have the inclination to picture her naked.

"Girlfriend?" Kate suggested.

"Prostitute?" Rick countered.

"Here?" Kate was amused. "Amongst the Hamptons high and mighty?"

"Oh, please just let me have that illusion for a few more seconds." Rick grinned then glanced around, finally catching the eye of someone he knew, a short man with an expanding waistline and a shock of bright red hair. "TC," Rick called, waving him over.

"Rick." The man approached, smiling. "I'm surprised they let you in the door. Especially looking like that." He indicated the bruising.

"I was framed."

"That I doubt." The man looked at Kate. "But I see you traded up from the treasurer's daughter."

Rick grinned. "Kate, this is Thomas Carmichael, known to all and sundry as TC."

"For my sins," the man in question said, taking Kate's hand and grasping it to his chest. "And it's a pleasure."

She smiled, managing to extricate her fingers. "TC."

"I hope you're keeping our mutual friend on the straight and narrow," TC said, his round face open and friendly.

"I'm trying."

"He just will get into trouble. He always did, even as a boy."

"Really?" She looked at Rick, her eyebrows lifting in query.

"TC, you know far too many of my secrets." Rick grinned wider, then leaned forward. "And I want to pick your brains."

"Pick away. Just don't expect there to be much to choose from."

"Eric Mackintosh."

TC glanced over his shoulder. "Mmn. He hasn't worn too badly, has he?" he asked, looking down at his own belly threatening to overflow his pants.

"You're a fine figure of a man," Rick assured him. "But who's the blonde with him?"

TC's eyes widened. "Richard Castle, are you planning on flirting outrageously with someone when you already have the most beautiful woman in the room on your arm?"

"We're not in a room."

"Don't be pedantic."

"TC, I'm just curious. Call it … writer's indulgence."

The redhead sighed and gave Kate a conspiratorial look. "Well, if you insist … that's Emma, his wife."

"Wife?" Kate stared at the woman. "Nobody said he was married."

"Tempted to try your luck with our Eric?" TC teased. "I wouldn't bother. He's a bastard and she's an ice queen."

Rick had to laugh. "Why don't you say what you really think?"

"I do. Always. But in this case it's true. Oh, he can pretend along with the rest of them, but there's something about him …" He shuddered theatrically. "Anyway, I'm not surprised nobody told you he was married. The amount of time they spend together, people have probably forgotten all about it."

"What do you mean?" Rick asked, honestly curious.

TC dropped his voice in case anyone might be eavesdropping. "This is her annual pilgrimage to the Hamptons, old boy. She'll stay for a month, then she's off to their villa in Vienna. Or maybe Venice. One of those places. They spend Thanksgiving in New York, then she wings her merry way to Gstaad for the winter. Or Geneva."

"Are you sure her name's Emma?" Kate teased in turn.

"Oh, that I'm positive of." TC looked over at the other couple again. "She doesn't look like an Emma, though, does she? More like a … a Veronica. Or a Martina."

"Or a Carly?" Rick suggested.

"Ah, his mother." TC might have a very large glass of scotch in his hand, but his wits were still all intact. "Yes. Freudian, don't you think?"

"Freudian?"

"Don't you think there's just a touch of resemblance between them?" TC turned enough to stare properly. "Around the eyes perhaps."

"I … don't really remember," Rick admitted. "And she's blonde. Carly was a brunette."

"Perhaps, perhaps." TC sipped his whisky. "But I am curious as to why you'd be interested in him."

"I'm not. It's just been a long while since we met."

TC nodded sagely. "And the fact that this lovely young lady is an NYPD homicide detective and you moonlight as a consultant for the very same is irrelevant? I have been known to read Cosmopolitan once in a while, you know. I believe this time it was in my dentist's waiting room."

Rick regarded him with new respect. "I'd forgotten just how intelligent you can be."

"A fluke, I can assure you." He leaned forward again. "Unless you're both here for an assignation? Something illicit, away from prying eyes?"

"No," Rick said quickly. "Nothing like that."

It was with a jolt that Kate realised it was normally her denying everything. To hear it from Rick's lips, though, made a flash of pain spit through her, just like it had when he walked out of the precinct. Their conversation in the car came back in full, aching technicolour, and she wondered whether she'd managed to slam the door in his face just once too often. _No,_ she told herself. _Concentrate, Katie. Now is not the time._

"Pity," TC sighed. "There's so little really juicy gossip going around this year. I could have dined out on that titbit for weeks."

"What about the burglaries?" Rick asked, filling the gap unconsciously while Kate gathered herself. "And the body on the beach?"

"Mere trifles." TC waved them away, then his eyes narrowed. "Unless you know differently."

Rick put his hand on his chest. "Me?" He shook his head. "I don't know anything. I never have."

"So you make up what you don't know and earn obscene amounts of money. Still …" TC pondered a moment, then patted Rick on the arm. "If you're going to arrest Eric, can I watch?"

Kate had to smile. There was something about this butterball of a man that was very agreeable, like the very best sugar taffy shot through with a hint of salt to give it piquancy. "TC, we're not going to arrest anyone," she assured him.

He sighed again, this time much more heavily. "That is a shame. I may have to go and annoy someone just to make up for it." His mood shifted like quicksilver and he laughed. "If you change your mind, you will tweet, won't you? I'm one of your myriad of followers."

Rick nodded. "I promise."

"Good." He stiffened. "Oh, God, here he comes right now. Time for me to make an exit." He swept Kate's hand to his lips then was gone.

For a moment she was bemused by his antics, then she asked, very quietly, "Is he gay?"

"I don't know," Rick admitted. "I'm not sure he knows either."

"I like him."

"Yeah. Me too." He grinned at her, much more like his old self, as Eric Mackintosh insinuated himself into their space.

"Detective Beckett, isn't it?" Mackintosh held out a hand.

"That's right." They shook. "And this is Richard Castle."

"Yes, I thought I recognised him." He looked the author up and down.

_Like he's planning on buying me and is about to ask the price per pound_, the random thought made its way through Rick's mind. "Nice to see you again."

"Mmn." His eyes lit on the bruises. "Did you annoy someone again?"

"_Someones_," Rick corrected. "A whole gang. Huge group. Massive." He held his hands wide apart to indicate size, like an angler measuring a lost fish.

"Really."

"I was lucky to get out alive."

"Of course you're exaggerating."

"Maybe a little bit," Rick allowed. "How are you?"

"Surviving. Making do."

_Only three Ferraris instead of the usual five_, Rick's inner demon suggested. _Or maybe he's saving on the hair gel. _"Aren't we all." He smiled.

Mackintosh's lips might have moved slightly. "Your books are selling well?"

"Not bad."

"Good."

Kate looked from one to the other, listening to the stilted conversation, and wondered if she could just shoot them both and get it over and done with. Instead she said, "Mr Mackintosh, there's some more information we've come across on the Althea Banks murder investigation. Perhaps we could go somewhere more private?"

If anything the chill radiating from him dropped a further degree. "Detective Beckett, I don't think that would be appropriate. In fact, I believe you don't have jurisdiction in this case. And if Buckman wanted to tell me anything, I'm sure he would have been in contact directly."

"It's juicy," Rick put in.

Mackintosh's face screwed a little in distaste. "That I doubt."

Rick moved in closer. "What, not even the fact that we're sure we know who killed her? And we're just waiting for the final piece of evidence to drop into place?"

Mackintosh looked at Kate. "Is he telling the truth?"

She shrugged. "I can't confirm or deny it."

His eyes narrowed. "I'm sure Buckman would tell me if I called him."

"Please do."

Rick put his hand on Mackintosh's arm. "And when you do, ask him about the dress."

Taking a half-step back to break the contact, Mackintosh said, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh, I think you do."

"Well, you obviously haven't changed." Mackintosh set his shoulders. "You always were annoying."

"I do try."

"Mmn." A smile, about as false as his hair, dropped into place. "I have to get back to my party. It was so nice meeting you again."

"Me too, Eric," Rick said, holding out his hand.

Mackintosh ignored it and turned on his heel, striding back to his wife. When he reached her he put his hand in the small of her back, as if stating _this is mine_, but she moved an inch away from him.

"You really did want to poke the tiger, didn't you?" Kate said.

"And I'm still in one piece. That was fun." He looked back at her. "I'll miss it."

"Castle –"

"Want a drink?" He interrupted her.

"No."

"Well, I do." He headed towards the bar.

She glared at his back. Fine. He wasn't going to continue the conversation from the car. Two could play at that game. "Do you think she knows?" Kate asked, following him.

"Who?"

"His wife. Emma."

"About Althea?" Something crawled into Rick's mind and sat in the corner, laughing maniacally.

"Who else?"

"I …" His eyes narrowed. "Kate, can you wait there a moment? I just need to …"

"I think the bathrooms are that way," she said, pointing.

"Thanks." He smiled. "I'll bring back a drink."

"Something non-alcoholic," she warned.

"Right." He disappeared into the crowd, leaving her clutching her purse and feeling oddly abandoned.

* * *

It didn't take more than a few minutes for Rick to locate his quarry. "TC."

The round man turned. "Rick. What can I do for you?"

"Information."

"Shoot."

"You said Emma Mackintosh comes for a month. Do you happen to know when she got here this time?"

The round man considered. "Last weekend, I think."

"Saturday, Sunday?"

"I don't know."

"Can you think of anyone who might?"

"Not really. Why do you want to know?"

"Nothing. Just … nothing." He turned back to try and find Kate, but TC's hand on his arm stopped him.

"Hang on. I do know," the redhead said quickly. "Saturday night. Late. I was driving home, and that damn Lamborghini of hers nearly ran me off the road."

"Saturday night. You're sure."

"Positive, old boy. I was just coming from an assignation of my own." TC squinted. "Is it helpful?"

Rick slapped him on the shoulder. "You know, I think it is."

* * *

Kate was entertaining herself going through the statute books in her mind and mentally attaching a crime to each of the people around her. She'd reached bigamy for a man in tennis clothes and far too well-developed calf muscles when her cellphone rang in her purse.

She reached inside. "Beckett."

"It's Esposito." There was a micropause. "What's all the noise?"

"A live Mariachi band." She chuckled. "What can I say? Having money doesn't mean you have taste."

"I like Mariachi."

"That's not what you said when we all had Mexican last."

A waiter scurried over. "I'm sorry, madam, but cell phones are specifically requested to be turned off."

Kate fixed him with a stare. "I'm talking."

"I am aware of that, madam, but they disturb the other guests. It's a rule of admittance."

She flashed her badge at him, but he didn't go away. "I need to finish this conversation."

He looked around, but nobody seemed to be taking much notice. "Two minutes," he said. "No longer." He stepped away, but didn't leave.

"You've got two minutes," she said into the phone.

"Jo Wyler, Althea's BFF, came by the precinct. She was going through some stuff and came across a journal."

Surely this was too good to be true. "Althea's?"

"Nope. Carly Mackintosh."

"Shut the front door."

"Hey, no dirty talk."

"What does it say?"

"Oh, lots. You really want to read it."

The waiter was glaring at her, continuously glancing at his watch. She nodded.

"Can you get it here?"

"We're already on our way. We tried to call earlier, around noon."

"I must have been in the shower."

"On your own?"

She could almost hear him leering.

"And how are you and Lanie?" she countered.

The other end went silent. Then … "You haven't told him, have you?"

"I might."

"Beckett …"

"It doesn't matter. He probably won't be coming back in the fall anyway."

"Won't be …" Esposito could get a lot of shock into just two words. "Why?"

"He's got better fish to fry."

"What –"

She interrupted him, not wanting to get into the whole story. "How long 'til you get here?"

"Traffic's light for a change, so … maybe an hour?"

"Fine. Let me know when you arrive."

"Will do." The call disconnected.

Kate showed her cell to the man who'd complained, dropping it pointedly back into her purse next to her gun just as Castle reappeared with two cocktail glasses.

"Here," he said, handing her something that looked suspiciously like a Passion Pounder, and her head began to ache in anticipation.

"What is it?" she asked, moving the umbrella to one side and wondering why anyone would want to put that much fruit in.

"It's good for you. Full of vitamins." He sipped his own.

"I'm on duty, Castle." She went to put it down.

His hand stopped her, his fingers wrapped gently around her wrist. "No, you're not. Right now you're just Kate Beckett, private citizen, enjoying a drink with a friend."

"Is that what we are? Friends?"

"I hope so."

He was still touching her. "Just friends?"

For a long moment she thought he was going to say something, maybe even tell her what was truly in his heart, but the shields came down again and he let go. "Friendship lasts, Kate."

"Right."

"So who were you talking to on the phone?" he asked, changing the subject with effortless ease.

"Esposito." She quickly went over what the detective had told her, wasting not a word.

He was impressed. "They're on their way?"

"Yes."

"But we've time to mingle."

"I thought you'd done poking tigers for today."

"Oh, no. I never stop enjoying that. Come on. I'm hungry." He put his hand under her elbow and moved her forwards towards the buffet.

Behind the large jardinière, her absolutely white dress hidden by the mass of greenery, Emma Mackintosh's eyes sparkled.

* * *

**A.N.: **Wow, two chapters in two days. Enjoy!


	18. Chapter 18

"This is a waste of time," Kate complained.

"No, it isn't," Rick said, chewing on the business end of a tiny chicken kebab.

"Of course it is. I don't know why I let you persuade me otherwise."

"Maybe I like your company." He held out the plate for her.

"I'm not hungry."

"Kate, eat something. It might improve your outlook."

"I doubt it. If Ryan and Esposito weren't coming here to drop off the journal, I'd go home."

"Whose?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You tell me, then. What good has this done?"

"We didn't have to cook?" He lifted the plate again. "Please?"

She sighed and took a mini quiche. "Fine. I'm eating. Okay?"

"When I see you actually swallow." He had to stop the grin as she tossed the pastry whole into her mouth. "Good, isn't it?"

She shrugged, firstly because her mouth was still full, and secondly because the quiche was actually very tasty. Still, as it slipped down her throat she managed to say, "It's okay."

This time the smirk was more than clear on his face. "Fine." He picked up some cheesy thing and nibbled the corner. "So when do they get here?" he asked.

Kate glanced at the clock on the wall behind him. She hadn't put her father's watch back on after her shower since it didn't really go with the outfit, but somehow she felt a little naked without it. "Probably not for another fifteen minutes. Although if Ryan's driving ..."

Rick chuckled. "No wonder they always get to a crime scene before we do."

She stirred uncomfortably. "Castle ..."

He interrupted. "Kate, what I said before ..." He stopped. "I don't want to stop working with you."

"Then don't."

"But I don't see how I can."

"Why not?" She took a step closer. "We did it for over a year without any trouble."

"That was before."

"Before what?"

He pursed his lips, exhaling noisily. "Do we have to go through this now?"

"Yes." She lifted her chin. "Yes. Now."

Rick gazed at her, and for a second she saw the young man he must have been once, before the success, the money, the women, and it shocked her. He looked vulnerable. Then it was gone.

"Okay," he said, nevertheless. "Before I realised what I wanted. But that was then. It's up to you, Kate. I think I've made my position clear. And as far as I'm concerned, so have you. So let's not ruin a perfectly good day with _might-have-beens_, okay?"

She wanted to say _no, let's ruin it, let's have this out and say what the hell we really mean instead of what we think we should feel. Let's run naked along the beach and see what_ ... She closed her eyes briefly. "Fine," she said. "Whatever."

"Fine." His persona was back in place, but maybe around the eyes the real truth lay. Then his expression changed to one of somewhat pleased surprise as his body jerked slightly. "Oh."

"What?"

He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his cellphone. "I love it when it does that," he admitted.

"You had it on vibrate?" Kate asked, realising she hadn't heard it ring.

"About the only thing I can make this one do. I can't wait to get my own one back from Buckman. Can't you pull some strings?" He was fiddling with the buttons.

"You're lucky it was at Sigerson's at all. And no, I can't."

"By the time it gets released it'll be out of date," he complained. "Damn it, how do I get to the texts?"

She took the phone from him and pressed one button. "Here." She handed it back.

"Oh. Thanks."

"If you didn't have to have a phone that did a thousand and one things and just had one to make calls, you wouldn't have this problem." She knew she sounded snarky, but couldn't help it as the frustration inside her seemed to grow.

"It's no problem." His face fell. "Shit."

"I take it there _is_ a problem?"

"Gina. She wants to talk to me asap."

"Don't tell me. She's pregnant." Actually, the idea stung, only Kate wasn't going to admit that.

"And ruin that figure? Don't make me laugh, it hurts too much." He glared at the tiny screen, as if the words might change if he looked at them long enough.

Kate was surprised at his slightly sarcastic tone. Maybe there was hope for him after all. "What does she want then?"

"Doesn't say. Just ..." His eyes widened. "Oh, you must be kidding me." He turned the phone around so she could see it flashing LOW BATTERY just before the screen went blank.

"Didn't you charge it last night?"

"No. I forgot. I was thinking about other things."

"Oh well, never mind." She sipped her drink, spring water this time at her insistence, and tried not to smile.

"Can I borrow yours?" he asked.

"What for?"

"To ring Gina."

"Just because she says jump, you don't have to ask how high," she pointed out.

"I'm not," he protested, then paused. "Am I?"

"A bit."

"Right." He looked indecisive. "Only it might be important. After the way we left things, I doubt she's going to be inquiring after my health."

"Fine. Call her back."

"You think I should?"

"What, am I your keeper now?"

"Not sure." They skittered on the thin ice again for a moment, then Rick said, "Can I borrow your phone or not?"

"Not." She nodded towards one of the Club employees lurking in the background. "And we're not supposed to be using them anyway. I was told off just now, remember?"

They were interrupted by a waiter materialising at Kate's elbow.

"Miss Beckett, Mr Castle?" He had a silver tray balanced on one hand holding two glasses, one a tall flute of something pink and bubbly, the other a tumbler of whisky.

"I didn't order anything," Rick said.

"From Mr Carmichael. With his extreme compliments."

Kate had to smile. She'd spoken to the man for less than ten minutes, but that turn of phrase sounded exactly like him. "Thanks," she said, taking the flute.

"Good old TC," Rick agreed, lifting the tumbler from the tray. He sniffed. "Single malt," he said appreciatively. He raised the glass. "To friends. Old and new."

It seemed like an odd toast to make, but she copied him. "To friends."

Rick went to take a mouthful, but someone pushing by jogged his elbow. The whisky jerked from the glass and splashed down his shirt.

"Sorry," the culprit said, not waiting to find out what he'd done, just moving off to disappear among the crowd.

Rick wiped ineffectually at the stain, feeling it sticking the fabric to his skin.

"Sir, is everything all right?" It was the same Club employee who had told Kate off for using her cell.

"Everything's fine," Rick assured him irritably, dabbing at the wet patch now with his handkerchief.

"If sir would like to come with me, I'll find him something else to wear," the man suggested.

"It's fine."

"I think you'd better," Kate said, this time unable to hide the smirk as she delicately sniffed the air. "You're going to smell like a distillery."

Rick paused in his attempts to clean up. "You know, that reminds me of the time when I ..." He stopped. "No. Totally inappropriate." He started dabbing again.

"Castle, don't be an idiot. Go put something else on."

"The Club will get your shirt laundered for you," the official said. "And replace the whisky." He snapped his fingers and a waiter appeared as if by magic, taking the offending glass from Rick's hand.

He gave in. "Okay, okay. Lead on."

"The men's room first, I think, sir, so that you can freshen up while I arrange alternative clothing. One of the staff will bring you a towel."

Rick nodded. "Thanks." He looked at Kate. "Are you going to be all right here on your own?"

"I'll be fine, Castle," she said, her look the one she always gave when he was trying to be overly gentleman-like. "I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself."

"I believe you. And I'll call Gina from reception."

"You do that," Kate said as the Club official led Rick inside. "You do that indeed," she repeated quietly, her voice ending on a sigh.

_Pull yourself together_, her inner Beckett said. _He isn't worth it._

_How do you know?_ This was the other-Kate, the softer, more feminine side of herself that she kept under lock and key most of the time. _He might be just what you're searching for._

_You're not searching for anything. You have your life just how you like it, doing a job you love, and doing it damn well._

_And sleeping alone at night. With no-one to make you pancakes in the morning._

She sighed and thought, _Oh, shut up. Both of you._ Lifting the flute to her lips she took a sip, feeling the bubbles burst on her tongue. As she suspected, champagne with just a hint of angostura to colour and cut through the sweetness. Considering the heat it was oddly refreshing, and as Castle had pointed out, right at this minute she wasn't a cop at all, so why not enjoy it? She took another small mouthful.

* * *

Gina was back to normal. If his ex could ever be considered normal.

"Why isn't it in my inbox right now?" she demanded, her voice carrying very clearly. In fact, if she'd raised it just a bit more she wouldn't have needed to use the phone at all.

Rick bit back on any comment that might be slanderous. "I'm still tweaking," he said, running his fingers around the collar of the black polo-shirt they'd found him to wear.

"Tweaking. Damn it, Rick, you wrote _Flowers For Her Grave_ in less than a month!"

"I was younger then."

"And less pre-occupied."

"I don't know –"

"I spoke to Martha."

Ah. "And how is she?"

"You know very well, since you saw her. And _she_ saw Detective Beckett."

Rick couldn't help himself. "Jealous?"

"Of course not!"

"Only that's what you're sounding like." His lips twitched. "A jealous lover."

"This has nothing to do with sex. It's business."

"And business has always been good." Maybe that had been his mistake, he realised. Trying to mix business with pleasure. Maybe it was always destined to end badly. Maybe that was why Kate was keeping him at arm's length.

"I need the finished book, Richard."

Now it was getting serious. She only ever called him Richard when she was getting ready to threaten him. "It will be with you in a few days."

"I don't believe you."

"That's up to you."

"I think you're too distracted. A murder, Kate Beckett ... I doubt you've put one word down on paper for a week."

"Not true."

"Prove it."

"In a few days." _When I've got a copy of the better version from my laptop,_ he thought, reminding himself to have another word with Buckman. "Gina, did you ever love me?"

There was a shocked silence from the other end of the line, and he could imagine her perfectly glossed lips opening and closing a couple of times. "What brought that on?" she finally asked.

"A simple question. Did you? Or was it something else?"

"Mutual lust, you mean?"

"Gina."

She was obviously thinking about how to reply, but what she eventually said surprised him greatly. "Yes. Yes, I did, Rick. I'm not the bitch you think I am. I did care. Otherwise I wouldn't have said yes."

"Even to keep me at Black Pawn?"

"Even that."

He grinned. "I always knew you were sentimental at heart."

"Perhaps. But next time, don't ask her to marry you in a hot air balloon. I was so cold I couldn't enjoy it properly."

"I'll bear that in mind. But I don't expect I'll get married again anytime soon, if at all."

"Really? You know what they say, third time's the charm."

"They also say once bitten, twice shy."

"Twice bitten, in your case."

"Well, if you're going to be pedantic ..."

"I have to be. I'm your editor."

In his mind's eye he could see her smiling, just as she had when they'd first arrived in the Hamptons only a few weeks ago, before it all fell apart again. This time, though, he had no regrets, just a faint tinge of sadness. "It was good once, wasn't it, Gina?"

"Once," she allowed. "But we were never meant to be long term. You've not grown up enough."

"I might have surprised you."

"Well, surprise me this time by getting the final draft of your book to me before Monday close of play. Or I'll be talking to the company lawyers."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me." She hung up, her acidic tone making him smile.

"Ah, that's the Gina I know and loathe," he said quietly to himself, putting the phone back onto its cradle.

He had loved her once, he knew that. In fact, he'd been in love so often throughout his life it was a wonder he'd only got two divorces under his belt, but most of those were fleeting. In all honesty he could count the number of times he felt something more on the fingers of one hand. Kyra, Meredith, the girl he didn't know the name of but had fallen for on the subway when he was trekking to the New York Public Library every day, finally getting up the courage to speak to her but she never reappeared ...

_And Kate? What about her?_

He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the little voice pricking him behind the ears.

_Cherries._

_Not the only fruit._

_Sweet, succulent, bursting with fragrance ..._

_Shut up._

"Sir?" It was the Club employee, the one who had helped him. "Are you all right?"

Rick opened his eyes and smiled. "I'm fine. Just ... my ex-wife, you know?"

The man understood. "Ah, yes." He nodded in sympathy. "Is there anything else we can get for you today?"

"No. No, nothing. Everything's hunky-dory."

"Excellent." The flunkey faded back into the shadows, and Rick strolled outside into the sunshine.

* * *

Kate wasn't where he'd left her, but in that red dress she wasn't difficult to locate. She was standing by the balustrade, leaning against one of the stone planters, apparently engrossed in the activity going on below her.

For a long moment he just gazed at her, the set of her shoulders, the curve of her spine down towards her hips, the skin visible above the low backline ... She'd felt warm under his touch, and it had taken all his willpower not to stroke her flesh with his fingertips, to press under the edge of the dress to reach other hidden parts ...

His inner voice sniggered, and he stamped on it ruthlessly.

_She's just Kate, _he internalised. _Kate Beckett. Inspiration for Nikki Heat. Nothing more._

The snigger became a full blown belly laugh, even buried as it was under a mountain of denial.

He exhaled heavily through his nose, straightened his jacket, and walked forwards. "Hey."

She barely glanced at him. "Hey."

"What's so interesting down there?" He looked over the balustrade but apart from a hundred people standing around and talking there was nothing out of the ordinary. He recognised maybe half, but neither Eric Mackintosh nor his wife were in sight.

"Nothing," Kate admitted. "I'm just waiting for Ryan and Esposito to show." She turned towards him, her eyes slightly hooded. "How's Gina?"

"She's fine. Just threatening me with grievous bodily harm if I don't get the copy to her as soon as possible." He brightened up. "Hey, can I get her arrested for it?"

"No."

Something in the shortness of her reply had him dropping his head to try and see into her face. "Kate? Are you okay?"

She was going to say yes, she was fine, like she always did when somebody asked her, but something in her decided it was time to be scrupulously honest. "No. Not really."

He felt guilt thread a bright trail through him. "Kate, I know we've been avoiding the issue. And I'm sorry. But I ... I don't want to get hurt."

"Is that what you think? That I'd be the one to leave you?" She managed to look into his eyes.

"Everyone does." He smiled, but there was no humour in his expression. "Kyra did. Meredith served me with divorce papers." He paused. "I'll admit I was the one who divorced Gina, but she'd left me a long time before that. Even Alexis is going to go off to college and leave me behind."

"You said your little black book was full of names," she pointed out, taking a deep breath.

"I don't like being alone."

"You don't have to be."

His lips tilted again. "Are you offering?"

"Maybe I ..." Whatever she was planning on saying died in her mouth as her legs threatened to give way and she slumped against the planter, her purse falling from her hand.

He caught it before it hit the ground and was immediately at her side, his arm around her. "Kate?" Worry coloured his voice. "Kate, what is it?"

"I ... don't know. I feel odd. Strange."

She looked into his face, but he could tell that she was having trouble focusing. "Come on." He helped her to a chair set against the wall, lowering her gently into it. "Does anything hurt?"

"No. Not like that." She rubbed her fingers across her forehead. "More like ... like I've had too much to drink."

A sliver of relief slowed his heartbeat. "Kate, that's probably what it is. You don't eat enough to keep a sparrow alive, let alone a vibrant woman like yourself. And you've been drinking."

"A glass of champagne and whatever it was that you got me," she insisted. "That was all. And I have eaten."

"Okay, then maybe it's too much sun." He pushed her hair gently from her face. "You stay here. I'm going to get TC."

"TC? Why?" She wondered if maybe she hadn't heard him right through the faint buzzing in her ears.

"TC's a doctor. A damn good one. He'll know if it's anything we need to worry about."

"I just need to sit for a while, Castle."

"Fine. You sit. I'm going to find TC." He put her purse on the table next to her and hurried off in search of his friend.

She sat back and closed her eyes, a wave of lethargy washing over her. It would be so easy to just go to sleep right now, she considered. Just let herself drift off ...

She slammed her eyelids open, but they wanted to fall again of their own accord. This wasn't right. Even if Castle was right and it was only the effects of alcohol on a relatively empty stomach, this reaction was way too strong. So maybe it was something else. Food poisoning, perhaps or he'd put something in her drink, or maybe it was just being close to him. Close. Needing to be close. Wanting to feel his hand on her skin again, his lips on hers ...

Her mind wouldn't stay put, skipping from one thing to another.

She was going to tell him. As soon as he got back. Even with TC in tow. Tell him that she wanted him. Wanted to make little Castle babies with him. Just like ... no, no. Stop. That wasn't what she was thinking about. Concentrate.

She felt drunk, like the night she'd gone out with Lanie and the Passion Pounders. God, the headache. Worse than this. She had to get Lanie back for that. Her and Esposito. And scrub the mental picture she had out of her mind. Lanie and Javier, in flagrante ...

"Are you all right?"

Kate tried to focus, finding it increasingly difficult. She could just make out a woman, crouched next to her. "No. I don't feel too good." She was surprised her words weren't slurred.

"I think you need to be inside," the woman said, sliding her hands under Kate's arms, lifting her to her feet.

"No." Kate tried to push her away. "My friend ... Castle ... Rick ..."

"I'll tell him where you are."

"No."

An arm around her waist, holding her up, insisting she move forward.

"Madam?" Another voice. Male, early twenties. Unknown.

"It's all right. She's just had a little too much to drink. I'm going to take her to lie down for a while."

"Of course, Mrs Mackintosh."


	19. Chapter 19

"TC."

Thomas Carmichael, standing by the lower buffet table in the marquee trying to look inconspicuous as he snaffled yet another plate of food, turned at the sound of his nickname, and his face lit up. "Rick. Old boy, I know you can't bear to tear yourself away from my company, but people are going to talk."

"Don't be an idiot," Rick said, taking his arm. "Kate's not feeling well."

TC put down his plate, his professional demeanour taking over. "Details."

"While we walk. It took me long enough to find you as it is."

"Lead on."

Rick did as he was told, heading back into the sunshine, giving the portly man what information he had. "TC, I have a bad feeling about this," he finished as they reached the bottom of the steps leading to the terrace.

"Rick, I'm sure it's as you suspected, just alcohol on an empty stomach, but if it's anything more then I'll find out."

"Castle!"

Rick turned, seeing two familiar faces pushing through the guests towards him. Ryan and Esposito, their smiles wide. "Guys."

Esposito held up a leather-bound notebook. "Carly's journal."

"Carly?" TC's ears pricked up. "Carly Mackintosh?"

"It makes interesting reading," the detective went on. "At least we know now what happened thirty years ago."

"Really?" TC moved forward. "Do tell."

"There isn't time for that," Rick said, shaking his head. "Kate's up there." He pointed up towards the terrace.

"Something wrong?" Ryan asked, his police trained senses picking something up.

"She's not feeling well," Rick explained. "TC's a doctor."

"Who, Beckett?" Esposito couldn't have sounded more surprised if he'd tried. "You are talking about our Beckett, aren't you? Only she hasn't had a day's sick in her life. Even getting blown up didn't stop her coming in to work."

"Yeah, well, today's different." Rick started up the stone steps. "Personally I think it was that drink you sent her, TC," he added over his shoulder.

"Drink?" TC looked confused. "I didn't send anyone a drink."

Rick turned quickly, the extra height making him loom. "You didn't? Champagne for her, whisky for me?"

"I would if I'd thought of it, but ... Rick?"

But the author was running up the steps, the other two men hot on his heels.

"Castle, what's this all about?" Ryan panted out.

"Someone sent us a couple of drinks. Kate had hers but mine spilled," Rick said as he gained the terrace, looking round desperately. "It was after that she started to feel odd."

"You think it was mickeyed?"

"I have the horrible feeling ..." He pushed through the crowd to the table where he'd left Kate, but the chair was conspicuously empty. "She's gone," he said unnecessarily.

"Maybe she went to the ladies room," Ryan suggested.

Rick pounced on her purse, holding it up. "And left her gun and shield behind?" He caught a waiter by the arm. "Have you seen the woman who was with me? Tall, dark hair, red dress?"

The waiter smiled slightly. "I believe she's inside, sir. Out of the sun."

"See?" Ryan said. "What did I tell you?"

"Wait a minute." The connection clicked and Rick's eyes narrowed. "You brought us those drinks."

"Yes, sir."

"You said they were from Thomas Carmichael."

"That's what the lady who sent them told me to say."

Rick stood totally still. "Lady?"

"Yes, sir." The waiter was starting to look worried, as if he was getting an inkling he'd done something wrong. "Mrs Mackintosh."

"Emma Mackintosh?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is there a problem?" It was the staff member from before, the one who had helped Rick by getting him a fresh shirt.

"My companion's missing," Rick said shortly.

"I'm sure that's not the case." The man looked at the waiter. "Do you know where she is?"

"Mrs Mackintosh said she was taking the young lady to lie down."

"No, she didn't." It was another waiter, indistinguishable from the first. "They didn't go towards the guest rooms."

Rick turned on him, worry beginning to build in the pit of his stomach like oil on a red hot coal. "Then where did they go?"

"Outside, sir. Towards the car park."

Rick glanced at Ryan and Esposito then ran towards the doors.

"Rick?" TC called as the other two men followed. "Richard?"

* * *

Kate was trying to concentrate, to push the fog that was invading her mind to a manageable level, but it was hard. She remembered what felt like a car ride, but not for long before she was half-lifted from the back and into something that shifted underneath her.

"Is she all right?"

"Yes, yes. A little too much to drink."

Words, but they didn't exactly make much sense. Whatever she was sitting in rocked, then the sound of another engine and the sensation of movement.

She wondered where Castle was.

* * *

Rick burst through the entrance and out into the car park, his eyes searching for any sign of a red dress, but there was nothing. "It took too long," he ground out, so angry with himself he thought he might self-combust.

"Boss?" Jerry Reyes was standing by his limo, jacket and hat off, a newspaper in his hand.

Rick strode over to him. "Jerry. Did you see Kate come out this way?

"No. She abandoned you already?" the cab driver joked, then saw the deadly seriousness in Rick's face. "What's up, boss?"

"What about Eric Mackintosh?"

"Oh, yeah, him I saw. Ten minutes or so back. He took a car off down the jetty road."

"Jetty?" Esposito asked.

"The Club's got its own marina," Rick said, his heart starting to beat even faster. "Was he alone?"

"I didn't see anyone, although he did draw up at the front entrance. I think maybe someone got in."

"They've taken her to their yacht." Rick ran his hands through his hair.

"Why?" Ryan wanted to know. "What do they think they're going to accomplish?"

"I'm not sure they're thinking at all." Rick made up his mind and nodded towards the limousine. "Jerry, the keys inside?"

"Sure. But –"

He slid into the driver's seat and started the engine. "Call Buckman. Tell him the Mackintoshes have Kate."

"But boss –"

Rick revved loudly, barely aware of Ryan and Esposito throwing the back doors open and jumping in before he put the car in drive and it leaped forward.

"They've got a head start on us," Esposito said through the open partition.

"Not the way I'm going." With a certain sense of satisfaction, Rick spun the steering wheel and steered the large limo off the road, directly towards the fairway.

"You think maybe we should get him to stop so one of us can drive?" Ryan asked from the floor where he'd fallen.

"You think he'd take any notice?" Esposito countered, then realised he still had the journal in his hand. Tucking it into the pocket on the back of the front seat, he took out his gun in the same movement to check it was ready for action.

Down the fairway, narrowly avoiding sandtraps and treelines, Rick was making the engine protest, but kept the pedal to the metal as much as possible. Round a stand of willow, then across the 8th green, he floored it across the 7th tee just knowing the car's wheels were doing irreparable damage in churning up the expensive grass, and he couldn't help the feeling of smugness even as he put his foot down. Serves them right for asking him to leave, he considered, then concentrated once more on getting to the jetty.

* * *

The fresh sea air had helped, clearing her head a little, and the spray that was splashing her face was doing its best to disperse the fog even as it stained her dress. _Never get those salt marks out_, she thought inconsequentially, even as she was able to make out a conversation close to her.

"How much did you give her?"

"Enough."

"Emma, if she dies before we get her out to sea ..."

"Eric, don't make such a fuss. It won't matter. No-one is going to find the body anyway."

"I just wish we'd got Castle as well."

"That can't be helped. But from what I saw, he's going to be so overwhelmed by what's happened to his little friend he's not going to be worried about coming after us. Besides, she's the police officer, not him."

"And if he does? If he puts it together?"

"Then we say she came out to the yacht with us for a talk, and she slipped, went overboard. Our word against his, Eric. And who's going to believe him above a Mackintosh."

"I hope you're right. Easier if the body is never found."

"Yes, well, if you'd done as I suggested in the first place, that bitch wouldn't have been."

"That wasn't my fault."

"I don't care. And don't think you're going anywhere yet."

During the conversation Kate had been trying to move, attempting to force her sluggish limbs to pull her to the side of the boat, perhaps attract some attention, but hands on her shoulders forced her back down. Her eyes focused on Emma Mackintosh's face. "Let me go," she managed to say.

Emma smiled. "It will be much easier if you lie quietly," she said, patting her arm.

* * *

Rick slewed the limo to a halt, not even waiting to turn off the engine before he was out of the car, running towards the Club employee at the jetty who was helping an elderly man and his female companion from a motorboat.

"Eric Mackintosh. Where is he?" Rick asked.

"Sir, if you would wait a moment ..."

Rick grabbed his arm. "Now."

About to protest, the employee caught sight of Rick's blue eyes, hard as sapphires in the light from the sun as it sank towards the horizon. He swallowed and said, "Mr Mackintosh went back to his yacht, sir. With his wife."

"Nobody else?"

"I believe they had a young woman with them. Dark haired. Red dress."

_Kate. _"Was she all right?"

"She seemed a little the worse for wear, I'm afraid. Mrs Mackintosh said something about her having too much to drink."

"Which yacht?"

"Sir?"

"The yacht. Which one is Mackintosh's?"

The man pointed, his hand shaking slightly. "The white one with the gold trim and dark blue superstructure."

"What's the name?" Rick heard Esposito ask, but he was jumping into the just vacated motorboat.

"What are you doing?" Ryan asked, joining him nevertheless.

"You really think they've taken Beckett out there for a jaunt? We made up time, but not enough," Rick threw back over his shoulder, finding the key and twisting it viciously. The engine roared into life.

In response Ryan tugged the line free from the mooring.

"Wait!" The boat's owner stepped forward. "Stop!"

"Sorry," Esposito said, stepping on board even as he flashed his badge. "Police business."

The man in the dinner jacket looked affronted, his companion slightly less so. "Aren't you Richard Castle?" she asked, but they were already gone, churning the water behind the launch into a white maelstrom.

* * *

"You must be insane," Kate said, annoyed that her voice was coming out only as a whisper. "I'm a cop. You can't go around kidnapping police officers." They'd had to almost carry her on board.

"No," Emma agreed, pouring herself a large vodka. "But then, we shouldn't go around killing young women, either."

Kate struggled to sit upright on the towelling covered chair, the dipping sun making her blink. "You killed Althea."

Emma shrugged. "Technically she drowned. At least, that's what your pathologist's report said."

"You read it?"

"Of course not. But I know people. Eric has a lot of friends – it didn't take much to find out who to ask the right questions of."

Eric hurried back outside. "We're getting underway," he said, and Kate could feel vibrations coming up through the decking.

She tried to stand, but her legs wouldn't obey her.

"Now, now," Emma said, sipping her drink. "We wouldn't want you to hurt yourself, would we?"

"Why?" Kate wanted to know, struggling to believe that Castle was coming for her, just so long as she kept these people talking. "Why did you kill her?"

"She thought she could be a part of my family," Eric said, rubbing his hands together as if they were cold. "My family! As if that could ever happen."

"She was blackmailing you?"

"No. Oddly enough, she wasn't. But I could see. Then her turning up in that dress, her hair dyed, looking so like Mother, I ... something snapped."

"You raped her."

"I took her on board, fed her, gave her plenty to drink ... I think I was owed something, don't you?"

"She was your sister!"

"_Half_ sister."

"You still raped her."

He shrugged, pouring a whisky for himself from the cut glass decanter. "She didn't say no."

Kate's vision was starting to blur again. "Because you drugged her."

"My wife's prescription," Eric admitted. "A dozen pills or so, dissolved in a martini ... she thought she was being so upper class." He almost sneered.

"Then I walked in." Emma shook her head. "I could see what a mess this could be, so of course I had to deal with it."

"You didn't mind your husband raping his sister?"

Emma looked down her nose. "We have an open marriage," she said, as if that explained everything.

"The perfect wife," Eric said, then stiffened, the glass dropping from his nerveless fingers. "Emma ..."

The blonde looked to where he was pointing. "Get us under way. Now."

Kate struggled to turn, seeing a small motorboat heading their way, three familiar figures inside. With the last of her strength she pulled herself to her feet, staggering to the railing. "Rick!" she yelled, leaning forward but Eric had hold of her arms.

Time seemed to stretch out like a rubber band as Eric tried to manhandle her away from the edge. She dug in her heels and the ridged decking pushed back, and she half-fell, half-pushed Eric back towards the railing. He trod on something and the whisky glass skittered away under his foot and he lost his balance. With a cry, his fingers tightening, he toppled over the side, taking Kate with him.

She thought she heard someone calling her name, then the water hit them like a cold wall. Eric was panicking, scrabbling at her, trying to use her to get to the surface. She tried to kick him away, but everything seemed to be happening very slowly, and at a great distance. Hands again, tugging at her, but as she drifted away all she could think was whether Rick would miss her.

* * *

Half a dozen yachts, most of them looking empty, too many of them white and gold, and all three men prayed none of them were Mackintosh's. It would take too long to search them all, so he headed for the one whose engine had just burst into life.

Coming up from the stern, they were able to make out the name. "_Errant Bouy_," Ryan murmured. "That's the one."

Rick almost smiled at the play on words, but only just. Movement on deck had him turning the boat to get closer, then he heard his name.

"Rick!"

His heart leapt into his mouth. Even at this distance her dress was bright, but she wasn't alone. She was struggling with a man. With Eric Mackintosh.

"Hey!" Rick shouted, but he had no idea if they'd heard him. "Hey!" Louder, until his throat stung.

Ryan and Esposito took up the cry, and both men drew their guns.

"Can you hit him?" Rick asked.

"No," Esposito admitted. "Might hit Beckett."

Rick growled. There was no access to the yacht from the side he was approaching, so it was with a vicious twist that he turned the wheel, skimming around to the other side. There. Steps up from a small platform. Barely cutting the engine he leaped from the boat, his foot slipping on the wet metal but stopping himself falling by grabbing the railing with his left hand. His shoulder wrenched painfully but he ignored it.

Taking the steps three at a time, he was on the deck, knowing the others were at his heels, running around the edge towards …

"No!" he yelled as he saw Eric and Kate topple overboard. "Kate!" He put on an extra spurt, pulling his jacket off and dropping it where he fell as he sidestepped Emma Mackintosh and launched himself over the side, seeing but not acknowledging Esposito do the same next to him.

He dove down, trying to see something, anything that might be Kate. His lungs threatened to burst on him and he had to come up for air, taking just enough so that he could go back down.

Nothing. Nothing. No ... There. Something, not red because red gives up its colour very quickly underwater, but it might have been a sundress with a low back and criss-cross over straps ...

He kicked hard, his chest burning, then he felt something in his hand, fingertips grazing his palm. He reached out, grasped her wrist and pulled her to him. Taking hold of her, his arm under her breasts, he headed for the surface, breaking through the light swell of a Coastguard cutter as it steamed towards them.

Esposito came up next to him, coughing slightly. "Is she ..." he began.

Rick checked her pulse. Treading water, he whispered, "Don't you dare die on me, Kate," thrusting his mouth onto hers and pushing air into her unresponsive body. Once, twice, three times, more, all the while watching her eyes, waiting for that spark as voices shouted all around him.

In an obscene parody of the kiss they'd shared, he breathed for her.


	20. Chapter 20

Somehow, Rick felt the heat should have broken, that a storm should have lashed the coastline as he made his dramatic rescue bid, winds and high water almost blinding him with the spray. Still, if that had happened he knew they'd have been hard pressed to get to the yacht in time, let alone rescue Kate. And if that had happened … no. That was not something he was going to allow himself to think about.

As it was, the sun rising on the new day promised more hot weather, no clouds, and only the hint of a breeze.

It had been sheer blind luck that the Coastguard were close by, and responded as quickly as they did to Buckman's call, although Jerry Reyes had made it, quite rightly, sound like life or death. They'd sent a launch to pick up those in the water, and Rick only relinquished his hold on Kate when Esposito pulled him back, telling him the medic needed to get to her.

He'd stood by and watched as they worked on her, his arms wrapped around himself, trying to feel something. Anything. He was vaguely aware of Emma Mackintosh being brought on board under armed guard, Ryan at her side, but all his attention was fixed on the woman lying so still.

An ambulance met them at the marina, siren blaring and waking everyone as they raced through the streets, then she was wheeled away into the ER while nurses tried to persuade him that he needed to be checked to make sure he hadn't inhaled sea water. Oh, and those bruises and abrasions might need seeing to, as long as he was here. Eventually he gave in, as it was easier than not, and they poked and prodded him until he was on the verge of getting angry, then found him some scrubs to change into.

They'd moved her to a private room by the time he'd changed, but no amount of cajoling, nagging or downright threatening had got him inside. He was forced to stay in the corridor, watched like a hawk from the nurses station as he tried to see past the curtains to Kate's bed, and feeling frustrated that he couldn't even get a glimpse.

Not that he was going to leave. Even the doctor coming out and telling him it was a matter of time now, whatever happened, and that he should go home, get some rest, wasn't going to make him shift from that spot outside her door except to pace up and down when it got too much.

He'd made several phone calls using Ryan's cell, letting people know what had happened, and ignoring the glares from the nursing staff, not at all surprised when Captain Montgomery said he was on his way, and Lanie insisted Perlmutter could take her cases. They'd arrived unexpectedly together during the small hours, and Lanie had pulled rank on the nurses to get more information than they'd given Rick.

"Her lungs are comparatively clear," the ME said. "It looks like she actually stopped breathing before she could drown."

Rick swallowed hard. "So she _was_ drugged."

Lanie nodded. "Her bloodwork shows a pretty high concentration of benzodiazepine, and that along with the alcohol suppressed normal respiratory function."

Rick understood. Lanie was Kate's best friend, and she was falling back on technical jargon to avoid letting the emotion get to her. "Like Althea."

"But you saved her life, Rick," Lanie went on. "You kept her blood oxygenated until they could intubate her." She squeezed his arm. "You saved Kate's life."

It didn't really help.

Rick offered Montgomery his house keys, since there was no real need for everyone to be at the hospital, but he wasn't surprised when the captain demurred.

"Not going anywhere," Montgomery said. "Not yet." Still, he took Lanie off to the waiting room, leaving Rick alone again.

At least for a while.

"Dad?"

He looked up, surprised to see his daughter standing in the corridor, her red hair untidy as if she'd run all the way from New York. Behind her stood her grandmother, worry lining her face.

"Hey, pumpkin." He got to his feet. "How did you –"

Alexis ran into his arms. "I caught the red eye, and Grams picked me up at the airport." She gave a weak smile. "I charged it to you."

"That's my girl. But you didn't have to come."

"Of course I did." She looked into his face, her fingertips ghosting over the bruises and cut lip. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." He stroked her back. "Fine."

"And Kate?" She looked past him into the room. "How's she?"

"They're ... hopeful."

Something in his voice caught her attention. "What? What is it?"

He swallowed. "She was drugged. Poisoned. They're giving her the antidote, but it doesn't work with everyone."

"Oh, Dad." Her eyes filled with tears.

"No, no, don't cry." He summoned up a smile from somewhere for both the other women in his life. "She's going to be fine. She's strong. She's ... Kate."

"When will we know?" Martha asked.

"Soon. Soon. She'll wake up and be telling me off before you know it."

Alexis squeezed her arms tighter. "Of course she will."

* * *

She wouldn't go to the beach house either, no matter what he said, and as time rolled on she kept him supplied with coffee, finding a cardboard sandwich from somewhere, until she eventually lay down to catch a little sleep on a bench, her head in Martha's lap.

"She's worn herself out worrying," the older woman murmured, stroking Alexis's long red hair.

"Me too," Rick agreed, but he knew he wasn't going to be able to sleep.

Ryan and Esposito kept alternately dropping by, ostensibly to tell him how the interrogation of Emma Mackintosh was going, but really to see for themselves that their colleague ... their friend was still breathing.

On his last trip, Esposito handed Rick the journal. "Here," he said. "Thought you might like a little light reading to while away the time."

"Thanks."

"And Emma's decided to blame everything on her husband."

"Not unexpected. Since he's probably dead."

Esposito's expression hardened. "Oh, definitely dead. He washed up on the shore not two hours ago. Pretty close to where Althea Banks hit land." Just the flavour of a smile crossed his face. "Or at least most of him did. It looks like he had a slight altercation with a propeller."

Rick's mind conjured up a young woman lying in the sand, her hair across her face, green eyes staring blankly up into the blue sky ... "Couldn't happen to a nicer guy," he said, just the right amount of satisfaction in his voice. "And Emma? Is she going to get away with it?"

"Nope. For Althea, maybe yes, but the attempted murder of a police officer? They're going to throw away the key." He glanced at the open door. "How is she?"

"Breathing easier."

"Good. That's good."

"Yes."

* * *

Buckman was next, his shirt for once undone at the neck, the tie hanging crumpled out of his jacket pocket. He carried two cups of hospital coffee, one of which he handed to Rick. "You okay?" he asked.

"Waiting."

"Mmn." Buckman sat down. "Done a bit too much of that kind of thing in this place myself."

"Your daughter," Rick realised.

"I hate hospitals with a vengeance, but Cassie needs to be here, so …" He smiled slightly. "It looks like she's going to be coming home soon, though."

"Good. I'm glad." Rick meant it, too.

"I gather your guys have been keeping you up to date on the interrogation," Buckman said, stretching his legs out in front of him, not wanting to talk on too personal a matter.

"They tell me Emma's blaming Eric."

"Pretty much. She's also insisting Althea was attempting her hand at a little blackmail."

"What with?"

"My question exactly. Emma says the journal." Buckman nodded to the notebook clasped in Rick's hands.

"I doubt she even knew it existed until yesterday," the author pointed out.

"I tried that tack, but she's got a good, expensive lawyer. He's only letting her say that Althea threatened them with exposing the past."

"From what I've read I don't think Althea would have done that."

"Mmn." Buckman sipped his drink then stared into the cup. "You know, I think this might just be worse than the coffee at the precinct."

"Monkey pee and battery acid?"

"Good description."

"I've drunk so much of it I think I'm inured," Rick admitted.

"It's probably burnt out your tastebuds."

"I wouldn't be surprised."

"So … what does it say?" Buckman asked, altogether too casually.

Rick glanced down at the soft leather, slightly worn around the edges. "About what happened thirty years ago?"

"Yeah."

"Pretty much what we surmised. Carly was deeply unhappy, trapped in a loveless marriage she didn't want and seeing no way out."

Buckman tossed back half his coffee, grimacing slightly before asking, "So she had affairs?"

"Flings, really, from the way she writes. William turned a blind eye, at least at first, seeing more value in ignoring the infidelity than have her walk out and take her money with her. Which meant everything was … well, not fine, but nobody upset the apple cart. Until she met Joshua Banks."

"The love of her life."

"Seems so." Rick paused a moment, more to gather his thoughts than for effect. "She was going to leave William, that's clear, and she told him the night of the party. Elite Catering had done the food, and she says she couldn't bear to see Joshua leave without her again. She says William hit her, more than once. There's a hint it wasn't the first time, mention of having to hide bruises on more other occasions, but this was much more violent. He seemed to lose all control at that point and took it further, raped her. She was trying to crawl away when he picked her up and tossed her over the side."

"Bastard." Buckman spoke quietly, but there was vehemence behind it.

"I couldn't agree more. Anyway, she didn't know why she hadn't drowned, nor did she remember getting ashore, but she woke up in Joshua's apartment not knowing who she was."

"Do you believe her?"

Rick shrugged. "There's no evidence otherwise."

"That's not what I asked."

"Maybe she _was_ suffering from amnesia, at least at first. William had apparently broken her nose, cracked her cheekbone … " Rick rubbed his hand over his face, trying to push away the tiredness and wincing slightly as his fingers caught on his own injuries. "She says nobody would have recognised her at first, so it was easy to change her appearance, bleach her hair …" He sighed. "I don't know."

"She should have gone to the police," Buckman said firmly. "It doesn't matter Mackintosh was rich, attempted murder is attempted murder."

Rick had to smile slightly. "Ah, but she says it clearly in here. She felt … free."

Buckman chuckled unexpectedly. "Yeah. I guess maybe I can relate to that. A fresh start, no ties, nothing holding her back from being who she wanted to be."

"She might have been disgustingly rich, but her life was still a prison."

"Interesting turn of phrase. No wonder you're a writer."

"Thanks. I'll take that as a compliment."

"Probably a good idea." Buckman glanced down at the journal Rick still held. "I'd like to take a read of that if I can. When you've done."

"For evidence?"

"More to satisfy my own curiosity." Buckman shook his head. "Besides, there's no-one left to prosecute from back then. William's dead so we can't get him for attempted murder, so's Eric so he's out of the picture for Althea's … even Carly's gone so we can't question her over wasting police time." He chuckled. "Still, four cases tied up in a night … that's not a bad rate."

"Four?"

"I'm counting Emma and Eric trying to murder Detective Beckett."

"I would have killed them both myself if they had," Rick promised.

"Then Kate's lucky to have you around."

"Would you mind telling her that?"

"No problem."

They sat quietly for a moment, sipping the appalling coffee, then Rick stirred again. "What gets me is why that pair thought killing Kate would get them anywhere," he admitted. "It's not like there was any real proof they were involved in Althea's death, just theories. What they did was just crazy."

Buckman laughed lightly. "Castle, if all the potential bad guys were in their right minds, my life would be a whole lot easier. Besides, the Mackintoshes had the belief in spades that money could solve anything given enough time. And getting rid of Beckett or you might have given them that time to throw enough cash at it to make it go away."

Rick felt a slight thread of unease slip down his spine. He knew how that felt, at least to a degree. Not that he'd ever committed murder, but being who he was, knowing the people he did, things could sometimes be swept under the carpet. Like riding naked through Central Park on a 'borrowed' police horse. In fact, considering the thickness of the file Kate had waved at him that first time, he was surprised he didn't have _felon_ tattooed across his forehead. Still … "I think I was right the first time. They were crazy."

"Hey, I'm not disagreeing with you. Nutty as a fruitcake, the pair of them." He shook his head. "They really deserved each other."

"What about Althea's car?" Rick wanted to know. "Is Emma any more forthcoming on that?"

"We've not got to that yet, but …" Buckman shrugged. "We'll probably never know for sure, but I can see a case being made for Eric telling her to meet him at the marina, insisting she get into the launch while he locked the car for her. Only he left it open, the keys in the ignition, knowing it was probably going to get stolen."

"Somewhat foolhardy, picking her up at a public place like that. Somebody might have remembered," Rick pointed out.

"Then maybe it was somewhere else, and he drove it back to the marina himself, thinking that if it _was_ found then it would throw suspicion onto any one of a couple of dozen yacht owners, and not just him." Buckman sighed. "Not that it matters particularly."

"No. I guess not."

"By the way, CSU went over her motel room again. They found traces of hair dye in the bath."

"So she coloured her own hair?"

"Looks like it. Any idea why?"

"I can speculate."

"Go ahead. You seem pretty good at that."

"I thought I was boring you."

"Nah. I'll let you know if you do."

Rick's lips tilted, then he said, "I don't think Althea was trying to blackmail anyone. My gut says she was trying to find out who she was."

Buckman was nodding slowly. "I tend to agree."

"She lost her parents less than a year ago, and that seems to have affected her very deeply, which we can see by the fact that she didn't start to clear their stuff until recently."

"And found Carly's journal."

"Exactly. And suddenly she finds out she has a family, albeit one who tried to commit murder. But the old man is dead, so's his son, yet here's Eric, her half-brother, and she can't wait to find him."

Buckman grinned. "Are you sure you weren't in the interview room a short while ago?"

"Emma said the same?"

"Almost word for word." Buckman fiddled with the top of his empty paper cup. "According to her, Eric wasn't going to have his family name dragged through the mud, so when she contacted him he invited her to spend the weekend on board his yacht, ostensibly to get to know each other." He'd unrolled the edge to about a quarter of the way around, and now tossed it accurately towards the trash can. "She turned up in her mother's dress, her hair dyed brown, and Eric saw red."

"That's how she put it?"

"Those words."

"Just like his father."

"Maybe blood is thicker than water after all." He stood up, stretching his back out. "I've got to get back. I think Emma's stewed enough. Time for round two."

"Let me know how it goes, will you?"

"Sure." Buckman glanced into the room. "And I expect you to call when Beckett wakes up."

"I will." When, not if. "And thanks for the coffee."

"Liar." Buckman smiled slightly and strode off.

* * *

The clock was nudging midday when he decided he needed to see Kate for himself and slid into the room while the nurses' station opposite was briefly unoccupied. It was only the work of a moment to open the curtain and step inside.

Kate was lying still, at least breathing on her own now, but paler than he wanted to admit. Various machines were hooked up to her, counting her heartbeats, checking her blood pressure constantly from the sensor on her finger, giving her oxygen via the canula resting in her nostrils just to help with her breathing, and a whole host of other readings he couldn't even begin to guess at.

"Beckett?" he whispered, touching the back of her hand. "Kate?"

She didn't move. Even her eyelids were still, as if she was in such a deep sleep dreams weren't touching her.

He gazed at her for a full minute, then turned, lifting the chair next to the bed closer.

"I'm not going anywhere, Kate," he said quietly, settling down. "Not until you wake up. And maybe not even then."

There was no response, no twitch of her lashes, no squeeze on his hand, so he sat back, waiting, reading through the rest of the journal and trying to put himself into Althea's mind as she'd done the same.

The pages were well-thumbed, corners turned down where Althea had wanted to go back to reread a section, even an arthouse cinema ticket to a showing of _Casablanca_ from a couple of months before used as a bookmark.

After the shocking details of the night thirty years ago, most of the remaining entries were taken up with comparatively mundane details of Carly's life, her decision to stay with Joshua, her excitement at finding out she was pregnant, and hoping against hope that she'd feel differently towards this child.

_And when I saw you, screaming at the top of your lungs because you'd been forced into a world you didn't recognise, I knew. Eric might have been my first born, but he was never really my son. That honour went to his father. Too alike, in all aspects. But you, my darling, you were perfect. You still are. And I couldn't be prouder to be your mother._

Rick had to pause, wiping at his eyes and telling himself it was simply tiredness that made them water, before reading the final paragraphs.

_There were times when I wished we had more money, when things were tight, but we pulled through. Enzo was always generous, even if he knew none of the details of my new life. _

_And that, I suppose, is the point. My new life. One I could never have had if I'd gone back, no matter how much money was in the accounts. And you, my darling, beautiful daughter, I would never have had you. I don't intend you ever to read this: it isn't meant for you to know. Your father and I love each other, and we love you, and that's all that's important. _

_But I needed to write it down, exorcise it, if you will, so that we can carry on with our new life. William would have fought any divorce attempt, and probably have found another way to get rid of me, so I feel I have had the best of all worlds. _

_I wish my father could have understood, but he would have made me go back. At least – and I feel guilty writing this – he didn't grieve for me for too long. Just a year and … I don't know if my 'death' speeded his: I hope not. All I know is that I wanted to tell him but needed to stay away. Needing isn't the same as wanting, so this was for the best. To everyone else I am dead, and that is the way it should stay. _

_I gave up everything for you, for your father, and I am happy. So happy, Althea._

He closed the journal, his mind years away. The last entry had been dated December 24th 1986. Althea's fifth birthday. They'd had that happiness, even if it was snatched away in the end. And if Carly had known her little daughter was one day going to find the diary, read it, maybe she'd have had second thoughts about putting it all down on paper.

Was it worth it? Rick wasn't sure. If she'd gone back, maybe Carly would have been able to divorce William, and Eric wouldn't have been turned into a murderer.

Except maybe he would – Rick wasn't too sure of the widely held opinion that it was surroundings and upbringing that made killers. He'd seen far too many rich men and women do bad things for that to be the easy answer. And if she had gone back then Althea wouldn't have been born. Or killed.

He sighed heavily. That way madness lay. Or at least a few dozen sleepless nights. Dropping the journal into his lap he slumped in the chair a little, and rubbed his face with both hands. He had to stay awake, for Kate's sake, but right now he could easily –

"Boring you, am I?"

His head snapped up and he was on his feet in a second, the notebook falling forgotten to the floor.


	21. Chapter 21

"Boring you, am I?"

Rick's head snapped up and he was on his feet in a second and by the bed, staring at Kate.

She smiled thinly, her forehead wrinkling at the feeling of the tubes in her nostrils supplying oxygen. She lifted a hand to wipe at it, but he grabbed her wrist gently.

"No. Leave it. It's helping," he said. "And no. I'm not bored. I never could be, not around you."

A nurse bustled in, attracted by the change in tone from one of the monitors, and he was hurried outside to stand apart as a small myriad of doctors appeared. He could feel the others coming up behind him, but all his concentration was centred in the room in front of him.

"Rick."

He glanced to his side, almost but not quite surprised to see TC there, his white coat stretched around his burgeoning waist. "TC. Can you tell us what's happening?"

His old friend nodded. "Give me a few minutes." He slipped inside.

Rick took a deep lungful of air, holding it for as long as he could before being forced to release it. Just another couple of breaths, he told himself. Just a couple more and then they'd know for sure.

The doctors fussed, checking readouts, ordering more blood panels, taking their time until Rick thought he was going to scream from the tension.

Then, just as he couldn't take much more, TC stepped out to face him.

"We were lucky," he said, a smile cracking his round face. "_She_ was lucky. She's going to be fine."

Rick felt the wave of relief wash through him, taking away the tension and pain of the last few days like it had never existed and making his knees weak, while Alexis squealed with delight and hugged Martha tightly. Esposito and Ryan clapped each other on the back, and even Montgomery cracked a smile. Lanie had to turn away, the emotion too much for her, even as Esposito put his arm around her.

"See, Dad?" Alexis said, letting go of her grandmother and sliding into his embrace. "I told you Kate was going to be fine."

He had to chuckle. "That you did," he agreed. "That you did."

At last the hospital staff left, all looking a lot happier than when they arrived. Rick stopped TC before he could go back on his rounds. "Can I go in? See her?" he asked quietly.

TC glanced over his shoulder at Kate, the curtains finally drawn back. "Just for a little while. She needs as much rest as possible." He grinned. "She's asking after you."

"Really?"

"Actually what she said was, '_where's that idiot Castle_?'"

Rick laughed. "Much more like the Kate I know and love."

TC gave him an odd but understanding look, then nodded. "Go on. She's waiting."

Rick slapped him on the shoulder and walked inside, a wide smile on his face. "Kate." He shook his head, looking her up and down as she lay propped up in bed. "If you wanted to sleep with me you only had to ask."

She rolled her eyes. "Is that all you think about?"

"On occasion." He sat down in the chair next to the bed. "I also think about what life would have been like if I … if we hadn't got to you in time."

His blue eyes were intense, and the sudden change from banter to seriousness in the space of a heartbeat threw her for a moment. "You saved my life." She didn't know, couldn't quite recall, but maybe there was a memory of being surrounded by water pressing into her skin, darkness at the edge of her vision, and someone's hand reaching down for her.

"Yes. Sorry about that."

"Why are you apologising?"

"Because you shouldn't have needed it. Kate Beckett can look after herself."

Ah. Right. He was referring to her comments over Jameson Rook saving the life of Nikki Heat in his latest work. "Yes, well, usually I can. But this time I needed a little help."

He smiled a little, and took her hand. "Hey, even the good guys need saving once in a while. Even you."

"I'm glad you did."

"Me too. I'd hate to have to tell Alexis you'd drowned."

Her lips lifted at the corners, her voice getting stronger. "Only Alexis?"

"Okay. Maybe my mother too." He glanced around. "Can I get you anything? Water? Some food? Maybe something to read?"

"I thought you weren't bored with my company."

"I'm not. I just … let me look after you for a while, okay?"

Since she didn't have the strength yet to even tap his shoulder, let alone tweak his nose, she had to nod. "Okay. For a little while. But I don't need anything."

"Then you just let me know."

"Don't worry. I will." She smiled.

"Oh, and in case you're wondering, Eric's dead."

Fighting with him, his arms around her, trying to either pull her back or push her over the edge, then falling … She shivered as someone walked over her watery grave, and swallowed somewhat painfully. "Did you kill him?" she asked, fixing him with her grey/green eyes.

"No!" Then he realised she was joking. "Kate, that's not fair."

"I just wondered."

"He drowned. I think." He couldn't remember if Esposito had told him that, or if he had just put two and two together. Or maybe the propeller had been the cause of death, although in all honesty he didn't care. "Emma's spilling her guts to Buckman as we speak, though."

"Emma?" Of course. White dress, blonde hair, insane. "She drugged me."

"I know. And she's going to jail for a long, long time."

"Not for Althea, though."

"No, probably not. There's only circumstantial evidence. Even the journal doesn't help."

Kate was surprised. "You read it?"

He shrugged, glancing at the diary where it lay on the bedside table, apparently picked up by one of the nurses. "I had to do something while I was waiting for you to wake up."

"And?"

"We were right."

"Ah." Kate lay back. "Poor Carly."

"Hey, don't feel too sorry for her. She found her soul mate, had thirty years of happiness … I think it's a pretty good trade. Keep your sympathy for Althea."

"Oh, I have."

"Good."

"And Buckman wants to interview you," Rick said. "When you're feeling strong enough. About what happened on the yacht."

"I don't remember that much."

"I'm sure he'll be gentle with you." He got to his feet. "Oh, and … before I forget …" He leaned forward and kissed her gently, his lips barely touching hers, and felt her smile.

"Castle …"

"What?" he asked, wondering if his technique was about to be questioned.

"What was that for?"

"I thought I'd better get it in, before tell me never to darken your door again."

"Is that what you think I'm going to do?"

"Not sure."

She realised he was telling the absolute truth. "Castle, I don't know where we're going with this, but …" A feeling of warmth suffused her as she made the final decision. "But I'd like to try."

"You would?" He looked like all his birthdays had come at once, with half a dozen Christmases thrown in for good measure.

"I would." She smiled. "And I'm not about to break," she added.

"Oh." He grinned, and lowered his lips again, this time more firmly, his tongue sketching and meeting hers.

"Uh-hum."

He lifted his head to see one of the nurses standing in the doorway, her arms crossed, one foot tapping. "Just being friendly," he said, turning on the charm, coupling it with one of his patented, guaranteed to get them into bed or anywhere else smiles.

Her posture softened ever so slightly, her foot breaking its rhythm and slowing down. "Miss Beckett needs her rest," she pointed out.

"I know. And I wasn't going to do anything else."

"Well, see that you don't." She looked at her watch. "You have two more minutes." Giving him the evil eye, she turned and left.

"You'd better be careful," Kate teased. "Or Nurse Ratchett there will be feeding you bromide in your tea."

Rick laughed. "I don't care. You're going to be all right, and that's all that matters." He squeezed her hand and kissed her again, wanting to keep on doing it for the rest of his life.

"You're incorrigible, you know that, don't you, Castle?"

"Call me Rick. Please. You did before."

"I thought I was going to die."

"So you're only ever going to use my first name when you're in mortal danger?" He had to make a joke of it, just to cope.

"Something like that."

"You could call me Richard, if you really want."

"How about 'kitten'?" The pained expression on his face made her chuckle, but that made her cough, and he was immediately at her side, lifting her into a more comfortable position. He waited until she'd finished, then held the water cup and straw for her. "Thanks."

"You want to call me 'kitten' I could probably get used to it," he admitted, sitting down again.

"Probably not. I've got used to calling you 'Castle'." A mischievous twinkle danced in her eyes. "Just be glad I'm not going to call you 'Rodgers'."

The pained look was back. "Don't. Please. That's worse than 'kitten'." But he had to laugh. "I have no idea what possessed my mother to call me Richard Rodgers. I couldn't wait to change it."

"Her favourite composer?"

"That's what she says, but I don't know."

"Your middle name's worse. I don't know anyone actually called –"

"Don't you dare," he interrupted, a finger to her lips. "That's between you, me and a fifth of scotch."

She settled back. "Okay. I won't tell."

Still, the twitching of her lips suggested it might be a case of not telling _yet_. He sighed theatrically. "My mother has a lot to answer for."

"I'll tell her that, if you like. Next time I see her."

"You can do it now. She's outside."

Kate's eyes widened. "She is?"

"So's Alexis. And Ryan and Esposito. And Montgomery brought Lanie with him. Honestly, I'm surprised Perlmutter didn't drive down."

Her mouth opened and closed a couple of times. "Really?"

"Really. Kate, they were worried about you."

"And do they know about … us?"

"Is there an 'us'?" he asked in turn, aware they'd just been mouth to mouth, still able to taste her on his lips.

She smiled softly, and his heart melted. "Maybe."

"Only maybe?"

"We have to take things slowly, Castle."

"Oh, I know." He counted items off on his fingers. "One, you have to get better. You're going to be in here for a few more days, then two, recuperation. I thought at my beach house. Think of it … twenty-four hour service, a ruggedly handsome man at your beck and call to cater to your every whim, and the ocean just outside the door."

She grimaced slightly. "I think I've had enough salt water for a while."

"Then you just get a tan." He leaned forward. "Kate, you're not going to be doing anything for a while. Not a damn thing." He kissed the tip of her nose. "Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. Three. And three, we have to have our first proper date."

"You think?"

"I know. Somewhere fun. With music. And good food."

"Sounds nice."

"Nice? It'll be spectacular." He grinned. "Is your passport up to date?"

She shook her head. "I'm not going out of the country with you, Castle."

"What, afraid I won't let you go? That I'm going to sell you into white slavery?"

"Just try it. I'm still a cop, you know."

"I know." His face became so tender it caught at her. "And I wouldn't change you for anything."

For a moment she didn't know what to say, embarrassed at his show of emotion and guilty that right now she was too weak to return it. "Glad to hear it."

"Anyway," he went on, "you won't be lifting a finger for a couple of weeks, at least."

"What about _Naked Heat_?" she asked. "And Gina. Won't she be howling for the finished copy?"

He shrugged, his devil-may-care attitude back. "I can work on it while you're resting."

"I thought you told me it was finished."

"It is. Was," he corrected. "I'm still waiting for Buckman to get me a copy from my laptop." He made a mental note to call the cop to give him the good news anyway.

"Ask him nicely." She could feel her eyelids getting heavy. "I want to read it, compare it to the version I skimmed before."

"It's the same story," he pointed out.

"Just curious." She shifted in the bed. "So … what's the next one going to be called?" she asked, her voice getting tired, roughening again from the tube they'd had down her throat.

He couldn't do it. He didn't have the heart to say he wasn't going to write another Nikki Heat novel. "I don't know," he admitted. "Any preference?"

"No. But I'm sure it will have her naked on the front cover again."

He smiled. "Probably. But honestly that's not my choice – that's the publishers."

"You could put your foot down."

"What can I say – sex sells."

She sighed. "Things don't change."

_Yes, they do_, he wanted to say. _I have._ But that would wait. Instead he said, "Can't help that. It's why you love me."

"In your dreams," she said, but there was just the hint of a tilt to her lips.

"Often." He had the feeling things were going to be okay after all. "Hey, how about _Summer Heat_?"

She considered. "Not bad. I suppose."

"I think it's pretty damn good for a spur of the moment thing."

"But let me guess, it's going to have a missing heiress, a body, and a beautiful one-of-a-kind dress."

"Might." He smiled. "You really liked that frock, didn't you"?

"It was amazing," she agreed.

"I can buy you one. Get Enzo Fabrigazi to make you something."

She shook her head, the oxygen tubes tugging a little. "No. I don't need it."

"Needing isn't the same as wanting," he said, then realised where he'd read the phrase. "So maybe _Summer Heat_."

"Maybe. Although you really do have to send _Naked Heat _to Gina." She tried not to grimace at using the title, or maybe it was the thought of the ice blonde.

"I have been sort of busy." _Waiting for you to live_, he thought but didn't say.

"You should. Otherwise she's just as likely to sue you for breach of contract."

"She wouldn't." He thought back to their somewhat acrimonious parting and subsequent telephone conversation. "She would, wouldn't she?"

"She's probably talking to a lawyer right now."

"Damn." Still, he didn't sound too unhappy about it.

"You'd better get it sent before you end up penniless and on the streets."

"Ah, but would you still want me if I was broke?"

"I'm not sure I want you yet, Castle."

He didn't mind her saying that. Not now. "But okay. I'll send off the manuscript soon as I get it from Buckman." He grinned. "Hey, remember how you went into the little girl's room with _Heat Wave _and read page 106?"

"Page 105."

He grinned widely. "You remembered."

A little colour touched her cheeks, but he was chivalrous and put that down to the meds she was on. "I guessed."

"Right." He patted her hand.

"You have to leave now, Mr Castle." The nurse was back, the foot-tapping even louder than before.

"Really?"

"Really. Miss Beckett needs her rest."

"Miss Beckett." He looked at Kate. "Somehow that just doesn't sound right."

"What else should it be?"

"Mrs Castle?"

Her eyes widened more than he'd ever seen. "Are you suggesting ..."

"No. Just ... we're not ready for that."

"No," she agreed, but was amazed to find it was only reluctantly.

"But it's going to be fun finding out if we ever get there."

"You mean you're not leaving me high and dry?"

He grinned. "Kate, I saved your life. Again. That means you owe me. Again. And I plan to collect."

"How, exactly?"

"Not sure. But I was thinking along the lines of a dozen dates or so." He waited for her to tell him where to go.

She surprised him. "Only a dozen?"

"Maybe eighteen."

"Okay."

His own baby blues went into shock. "What?"

"Okay."

"You mean ..."

"I mean a date. A proper one. See how it feels."

He tried to gather himself. "It'll feel good, Kate. Oh, it will feel really good."

"On one condition."

"Name it." He was prepared to shave his head and sing the Star Spangled Banner if it helped.

"No ribbing Esposito about Lanie."

"What?" His eyebrows raised. "You know, I'd forgotten."

She didn't believe him. "Promise."

"Not even a little? I've got some good ones lined up."

"Not even a bit. Promise."

"Fine." He exhaled noisily. "You're no fun, Detective Beckett."

"And don't you forget it." She yawned just as the nurse coughed again.

"Fine, I'm going." Except he couldn't help himself. Getting to his feet he leaned down, brushing his lips across Kate's once more. "See you in the morning," he promised.

"And don't forget that copy," she murmured as she drifted into sleep.

"Tomorrow," he promised, then sauntered out to give the rest of his friends the good news.

As for the manuscript he'd do it too, maybe get a printout bound in town so it was easier to read. At least, he added to himself, after he'd had a chance to rewrite the end. It didn't matter that he hadn't got the original back yet. It gave him the opportunity to change it, to make it better. Perhaps something like …

"_You should be pleased," Rook said, giving a sad, twisted little smile. "You get your life back."_

_He walked away, and she waited for him to turn, to at least glance over his shoulder. She watched until he reached the corner, wondering what she'd do if he didn't, or worse, if he did. Then he paused. Shit, he paused. And as if in slow motion, his head twisted, just enough to look at her, that damn smirk on his face. She wasn't sure, but she thought maybe his eyelid dipped enough to make it a wink._

"_Bastard, Rook!" she called, but he didn't answer._

_Instead he carried on and disappeared around the corner, out of sight, and she wondered if he was ever going to be out of mind. She allowed herself a smile. Not that it mattered, because right now, at this moment in time, Detective Nikki Heat wasn't alone._


	22. Author's Notes

**A.N. 20 August 2010:**

So that's it, my version of the interval between seasons two and three of Castle. I would like to thank every single person who has read and reviewed – I've never written such a popular story before!

It all started because of a virtual conversation back in May with the DFTs (Deep Fried Twinkies, if you hadn't guessed), a group of like-minded Castle lovers who watch and on-line chat on a regular basis. We were bemoaning the lack of new episodes until September, and I suggested writing my own take on what was happening over the summer of 2010. Little did I know the task I was setting myself! BLOW THE MAN DOWN had to go on the back burner (normal service to be resumed shortly), and my muse more than once decided to go on vacation without leaving a forward address, but I knew I had to finish before the start of season three. Which I did – with time to spare!

Someone asked if I had outlined this all before I started – well, the answer is yes. And no. I wrote the opening chapter first, with the thought in my head that maybe that was all there was going to be. Then when I decided to continue I wrote the very end, with Rick deciding the rewrite the last paragraphs of _Naked Heat _in the hospital. It was filling in the rest that was the hard part. At that point I more or less had just the image of a jewel-coloured dress, a thirty year old crime, and Rick saving the day. Somehow.

I tend to write sectionally as inspiration hits, not chronologically, so for instance the daring rescue was written well before the involvement (or even creation) of Emma, while Ryan and Esposito insinuated themselves at more or less the last minute, and sometimes things went the way they wanted without any conscious intervention from my brain.

But it worked. I think.

Oh, and this was marked up as AU, and will stay that way, because now we know more about what's going to happen in the first couple of episodes, this is definitely an alternate reality. And for those of you who wanted Kate and Castle to fall into bed together … not yet. If I decide to continue this timeline, they're not going to be rushing into anything. But we'll see.

You may also have noticed a slight name change/alteration to _**3x00 Summer Heat**_. No, it wasn't meant to make you think you hadn't read it (although please feel free to go back and read it again!) but following a comment that a better title might bring in more readers, I considered and agreed.

And that's a wrap!


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